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. The Non-Allied Powers are the products of this author's own deranged mind, as is the Ulysses . . .
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 Eight
Struggles
Darkness stretched its presence around him, through him. It scattered across his vision, then his thoughts. Shadows within the room seemed to come alive, to breathe with . . . something. Lucas didn't know what. He didn't want to know. But shadows were there, alive as he was. They became a part of him, joining with his own thoughts, his own desires, his own wishes.
Damn, right then, the shadows seemed more real than he did.
For a moment, Lucas's heart seized, pounded to a stop. He felt tears tremble in the corners of his eyes. Soon, those shadows would be more real than him. He would be dead: gone. Finis. Over with.
Dead.
He would be nothing--unless humans truly did have spirits or souls that lived on after the body died. He just didn't know if he believed that. Science had never shown him that there was an existence after death. Though science centered his world, his life, it had never been able to offer an explanation for what happened after this life. Upon that question, that path into the unknown, it had always been chillingly silent: death, the quenching of his existence, was somewhere science could not follow him.
He supposed those shadows would live on when he was dead, their forms darting across the walls late at night, always whispering of a darker side to the world, a darker undercurrent . . . though they, too, would die when light returned, when light annihilated the dark world they formed. Even darkness died, and, thus, night and day, dark and light, spun together perpetually, interrelated by the very connection of their opposition. It was a paradox that chilled his blood.
Hell.
He blinked, hands shaking slightly, fingers trembling as the blade rested against his flesh. He was going to die now--soon--very soon. Wasn't he? Yes. No doubt about it. That was the whole, enlightening result of everything that had happened in his life: his experiments, his parents' hatred for him, his intelligence. It all led right here, an arrow in flight soaring steadily towards its target: A problem had needed solving, and he was the solution to that problem.
Obviously.
Ending his own life with the blade of steel held in his trembling hand--this was the ultimate solution. It solved the problem brilliantly. The equation of his entire absurd life, the variables that made him who and what he was, for whatever reason, they all led straight to this point. It was his fate, his karma, to solve this problem. Or, for all he knew, he was who he was--Lucas Wolenczak, teenage genius, developer of the vortex--for no reason, merely a random sequencing forged from the formless chaos of the universe . . . a random sequencing that, somehow, created him.
For a moment, Lucas simply shuddered. No. There had to be some pattern to it, some design. If there wasn't, didn't that make everything he had done, everything for which he had struggled . . . useless? Cheap? Worthless?
Again, he shuddered, gooseflesh prickling his skin.
Everything led, somehow, to this one point, this point balanced as if atop all the rushed, frenzied moments of his life: the thoughtless moments, when an unthinking comment here or proud boast there hurt someone else's fragile sense of self; the charged moments, when life seemed to stand silently, waiting for him to decide his next move, waiting for him to conquer all the troubles that stood before him; the frightening moments, when his father attacked him, fists lashing out at him, or when the seaQuest was attacked, her seemingly indestructible sides creaking as hit after hit scored against her hull; and even the calm moments, when life seemed to trickle by, slowly, measured--when friends joined in his laughter, when sunsets splashed radiant hues across the sky's canvas, when a book was the favored relaxation of the day. The moment balanced, suspended, still . . . breathless, as if awaiting some change. It then tottered . . . started to slide towards an end, a conclusion. His life led straight to this point, to this time: to this.
There was a problem. The problem could kill thousands of innocent people. He had found the solution--the solution that would save those lives.
It just wouldn't save his own life. Not now.
Blood curled down his skin, wept into his clothing.
He inhaled sharply, forcing his chin up an inch--maybe two.
Around him, his world shifted, then simply . . . froze. The room, the blood, the guards . . . all seemed to disappear into nothing, to fade. They were nothing. Even his friends blurred, then disappeared from his awareness.
All Lucas could see was General Thomas.
All Lucas could feel was the blood trickling slowly, ever-so-slowly down his throat.
All Lucas could hear was the blood pounding, hammering, in his ears: thud, thud, thudddddd . . .
Shooting apologetic eyes at Bridger and Kristin, hoping, praying that they would understand, Lucas flexed his hand, now almost there, almost ready to push the knife further into his flesh. The blood still beat against his eardrums, its cadence fast, almost deafeningly fast.
Thomas rushed towards him, eyes wide, face gray--mind shaken.
More blood. More and more and more . . .
Lucas glanced briefly at the lifeless eyes of the guard beside him, seeing unthinking, blind eyes meet his own glance . . .
No no no no . . . Lucas's mind whispered silently, reeling, but he forced himself to ignore that soft whisper. He didn't really want to die. God, no. There had been so much, so much he wanted to do. There had been so much he wanted to explore. But that was irrelevant. Right now, he had one course of action to follow: there were no options.
He again flexed his hand.
Eyes still trained on the dead guard, on the emptiness of the corpse's eyes, Lucas tightened his grip on the knife, muscles tensing. He inhaled sharply, then moved . . .
Time shuddered . . . stopped.
A blurred shape moved in the corner of his eye. Motion edged into his awareness.
Something hit him in the side. He pitched forward. A startled gasp--his startled gasp--echoed in the room's frightened silence. The room danced in Lucas's eyes, swimming, a blending of colors and shadows, of life and death . . . swaying crazily, out of control.
With an umph, Lucas landed on his side. Blood spattered from his throat onto the floor. The knife clattered to the floor feet away from him, its metallic clank a sound more powerfully frightening than anything Lucas could imagine: clank. Thud.
No. No!
The blade glimmered in his sight, crimson marking its teeth.
He stared at it.
Then he ran, flinging his body towards the knife, nothing registering in his mind but that one, single blade.
Desperation clawed through him: he had to have that blade. He had to have that knife. He had to, he had to, he had to. It was the only . . .
A body lunged into his own, knocking him over. Breath rushed from his lungs, from his body. Again, he felt himself falling to the floor, crashing down . . .
Hands, large and chapped, held him down, held him pressed to the floor. A new blur--only a shadow in his fading vision--reached down to retrieve the knife.
Lucas struggled, reaching, frenziedly grappling towards the knife as his mind screamed that he should be holding the knife . . . that he should be plunging the damned knife into his own throat.
But as he struggled, the large hands still held him down, oddly protective. His struggles slowly weakened, becoming more like twitches in the body, as unconsciousness loomed before his faltering mind.
Blackness at last smothered his awareness into nothing.
*****
He heard sounds. Noises. Lots of them.
There was noise in death?
Apparently, there was also warmth in death, for he felt comfortably warm, his skin reflecting none of the iciness, the chill, he had always associated with death. Corpses weren't supposed to be warm.
Hmmm. This was . . . odd. Very odd. Apparently, he was going to have to rethink all his old notions about death and the afterlife.
Wait a darned second . . . what the hell was he doing thinking when he was dead?
Okay, that was a problem: death totally discounted the possibility of thought. It didn't happen. He was sure of it. Well . . . pretty sure, at any rate.
So . . . if he wasn't dead . . . what was he?
There were numerous possibilities: perhaps electrical stimuli continued in the brain even after the brain "died"; perhaps there was an afterlife, and he was now experiencing it; perhaps he was really only a bolt of energy right now, but his "mind" hadn't quite accepted that reality. These were all good possibilities. However, the most obvious possibility was that he wasn't really dead.
Slowly, Lucas tried to force his eyelids open. To his utter amazement, they opened.
Oh, Lord. He wasn't dead. He was still alive . . . still a captive . . . still a pawn in Thomas's cursed schemes. Hell.
He glanced around. For a moment, he thought he was in the same room they'd originally arrived in . . . weeks ago, seemingly. Lucas knew it had only been, what? A day? Two? However, it felt like they'd been in Thomas's hands for years. Decades. Centuries.
The room he was now in was, as all of them, windowless and gray-walled. However, this room had chairs in it--several of them. They were hard-backed and uncomfortable looking, but they were better than what their first room had been furnished with: it had had no furniture.
He seemed to be lying on the floor, a blanket covering him. A pillow was beneath his head; that was yet another improvement. But, even better--the best news of all, as far as Lucas was concerned--he wasn't the only person in the room. Bridger, Westphalen, Nelson, Admiral Noyce, and Alicia Noyce were all huddled in various shades of wakefulness around the room. Bridger and Westphalen looked moderately awake, but Noyce and Alicia were another matter entirely. Lucas winced. The Admiral's face was swollen and purpled with bruises; blood crusted his skin. Alicia Noyce was in even worse shape. Lucas could barely see her eyes in her bruised face; they were blackened. He thought he could spot some broken bones, too, particularly in her hand.
Lucas moved slightly, trying to sit up . . . then wished he hadn't. Pain shot through his skull. He felt lightheaded, too--very lightheaded. It felt like someone had disconnected his head from his body, allowing his mind to float far, far away. Before he could stop himself, Lucas groaned.
Westphalen and Bridger were kneeling at his side in seconds. He smiled faintly at their concerned expressions, simply wishing his head would quit throbbing enough for him to focus on what they were saying.
". . . you feel?" Westphalen was asking when his ears finally quit ringing. She frowned at him. "Lucas? Love, how are you feeling?"
He supposed he was feeling pretty good--for someone who was supposed to be dead, at least. The fact that he was feeling at all was, indeed, a near miracle, considering all that had happened . . . though he did wish the heightened sensitivity of his eyes and ears would disappear. "Uh . . ." He cleared his throat, surprised at how thready his voice sounded. His throat hurt, and speaking burned. He remembered Thomas trying to strangle him . . . but even that hadn't hurt this badly. He shook his head. "Uh . . . o--kay. I t--think."
Kristin's brows shot up at least two inches--Lucas was sure of it. Her voice patient, though even her patience seemed stretched, Kristin asked, "How is your head feeling?"
He glanced at her, suddenly feeling nervous. He had the feeling that this was just the prelude into a prolonged, arduous lecture. "F--fine. Well . . . a bit achy."
She looked at his head, tipping his face several directions. She then cleared her throat. "Well, that would probably be because you hit your head when you fell."
Bridger simply watched the two of them, his face unreadable . . . uncomfortably so. Lucas swallowed hard before looking back at Kristin, whose annoyed face was far easier to handle than Bridger's silence. "Fell? W--when?"
Kristin ignored him. She asked, brows seemingly raising another inch or two, "And your throat? How does it feel?"
Lucas figured the path of least resistance between Kristin and Bridger was likely the most optimistic. All he had to do was assure them that he felt grand. "Okay. F--fine." At their disbelieving expressions, Lucas nervously added, "C--couldn't be better." Oops. Perhaps that was overkill . . .
Kristin delivered her classic skeptical-doctor look at him, one of her finest, most intimidating scowls lining her mouth. She crossed her arms over her stomach and just looked at him. Lucas supposed she was tapping her toes, too, but he decided not to bother looking.
"Wh--what?" Lucas finally asked, returning her scowl with one of his own.
Bridger answered for her. "What were you thinking?"
Lucas looked anywhere but at Bridger. After an inordinately long study of his blanket, Lucas surreptitiously peeked up at Bridger.
Like Westphalen, Bridger, too, sat with his arms crossed over his chest, staring down at Lucas with dark eyes that suddenly burned with suppressed rancor. Lucas wished he could just go back to sleep. Anything was better than this. He really didn't feel up to one of Bridger and Westphalen's grilling sessions right after he'd started to slit his own throat . . .
Oh. That was what this was all about.
Lucas slid further under his blanket, wanting to hide. Great. How was he supposed to explain why he'd done what he'd done . . . and how was he supposed to explain this to them, no less?
"Lucas Wolenczak," Bridger finally began, his voice strained. Lucas winced at the use of his full name, then wished to sink into the floor as Bridger leaned in towards him. "You had better have one hell of a good explanation for what you just did. One hell of a good explanation."
Brieftly, Lucas wondered if trying to save their lives was enough of a good explanation for Bridger's tastes. Somehow, though, he doubted it. He fidgeted with his blanket, then idly drifted his hand up towards his throat. Bandages met his fingertips--thick bandages. He wondered momentarily where Kristin had gotten the bandages, then realized the mad General must have given them to her to keep his precious scientist-hostage alive. How nice of him.
Bridger continued, voice raising slightly, "How could you do that, Lucas? Hmmm? Just . . . try to end your life? Just like that? I want an answer, young man."
Lucas glowered up at him, suddenly wishing that Bridger and Westphalen had been stuck in another room. At least that way, he wouldn't have to listen to their tirades.
"I had a gun to my head . . . and next thing I know, you're sitting there with a knife pressed against your throat, blood running . . ." Bridger inhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Thomas had a gun to my head, Lucas! Do you understand me? He had a gun . . ."
"Exactly!" Lucas finally exploded, looking away from the Captain's eyes. He shook his head. "I couldn't think of anything else to do . . ."
"You were trying to kill yourself, for Christ's sake! Thank God Nelson got to you in time . . ." Bridger paused, running a hand--a visibly shaking hand--through his hair. He suddenly exploded, dark, almost haunted eyes burning into Lucas, "Damn it, Lucas, I couldn't get to you to stop you! Thomas had that gun held against my head.
"Thomas was going to kill you!"
"You don't know that. We don't know that." Bridger sighed, anger still glowing in his eyes, but softening somewhat. "I doubt he would have. It would have been stupid to kill me when I'm such a great weight to hold over your head."
Lucas didn't miss the self-disgust in Bridger's voice. He looked away for a moment. Slowly, he said, forcing each word out past his injured throat, "It looked to me, sir, like he was going to kill you. I couldn't think of anything to save the mess we're in . . . but this, that is."
Kristin cleared her throat, quickly squeezing Lucas's hand as he gripped tightly at the blanket. "Easy, Lucas. Watch yourself. Your throat is still hurt from when Thomas nearly strangled you . . . and now there's the surface wound to your throat, too."
Lucas flinched inwardly, then suddenly stared at her: surface wound? Was that all he'd managed to do when, with every ounce of his being, he'd been trying to kill himself?
Great. He couldn't even manage to kill himself right. Lucas sometimes wondered if he could do anything right. God alone knew he'd managed to mess things up considerably by inventing the stupid vortex in the first place.
Bridger stared at him for a long moment, sighing. He rubbed a hand across his chin before looking at Lucas. "Look, Lucas . . . killing yourself is not the answer here. I think we've talked about this before."
"This has nothing to do with before," Lucas snapped, irritation lancing through his words. Shakily, he sat up, ignoring Kristin's sounds of protest. "The last time I tried to kill myself, I wanted to because of my father. Because of the abuse. Because I thought I was worth about as much as a speck of dirt."
He paused, inhaling deeply. After a quick glance at both of his listeners, Lucas sighed, visibly forcing himself to relax. "I wanted to die then. It seemed like the only option out of a life I couldn't stand." He ran a trembling hand through his hair. "That wasn't the case this time. I wanted to live. I wanted to get out of this mess. But, truthfully, at the time . . . it seemed the only way to stop Thomas. And, damn all to hell, Thomas needs to be stopped!"
Bridger nodded slightly, hearing the undercurrents in Lucas's voice. He could see, truly, that this time was different--that Lucas had tried to kill himself for reasons completely unconnected to his previous suicide attempt. But . . . suicide was suicide. Dead was dead. The very thought that Lucas had nearly succeeded both times made every muscle in his body tense, made his stomach twist into knots upon knots upon knots.
Carefully, he nodded, laying a calming hand on Lucas's shoulder as the teen glared at him, daring Bridger to contradict him. Bridger sighed. "Look . . . Lucas . . . I know you did what you thought was best." He felt Lucas's muscles tighten beneath his hand. "You are right in this: Thomas needs to be stopped. And you certainly stopped him."
Lucas stared at him, surprised.
Bridger continued, "Your actions shocked him. He stopped his . . . activities to rethink his strategy . . . or so I'd assume, at least." He met Lucas's eyes squarely. "But your answer, had you--succeeded," Bridger visibly blanched, but continued, "that answer would have changed nothing. He would have continued in his research into vortices . . . after he had killed all of us first."
Lucas flinched. Eyes widened, he swallowed hard. He hadn't thought of that. If he were dead, Thomas would no longer have any reason to keep his friends alive. Lord . . . he had almost gotten all of them killed.
But a tiny part of his mind insisted that that might have been better than letting his vortex fall into Thomas's hands. As insane as the man was . . .
Lucas shuddered. He was so ridiculously, absurdly confused. He didn't know what to think. Right now, his mind spun in turmoil. Kill himself and kill his friends, but manage, perhaps, to stop Thomas's plans; or continue to live and keep his friends alive, but serve as Thomas's pawn, which could lead to who knew how many deaths. Neither choice was acceptable.
A chill coursed through his spine. Nothing seemed to offer hope. After the mess with the Ulysses, talks between NAP and the UEO had been strained, at best--almost explosive, at worst. The UEO charged NAP with breaking every international law and peace accord known to man. NAP charged the UEO with purposefully developing a weapon and a ship of enormously powerful potential--disastrously powerful potential, even--to tip the balance of power in an all-out effort to destroy NAP. The UEO returned with yet another charge, blaming NAP for trying to start war. NAP responded by saying that the UEO had been begging for war from the very beginning, as evidenced by their development of the Ulysses and the vortex. And, so, the "talks" continued, almost always circling right back to where they began: the Ulysses and his vortex.
Now, the Ulysses was no more than a leaking tub. It was no longer a threat.
However, the vortex was no leaking tub . . . it was becoming increasingly powerful. Even more, it could be strengthened and further developed, for the original scientist--Lucas Wolenczak--was still alive.
As far as NAP was concerned, he was the cornerstone of the problem. The Ulysses could no longer destroy the balance of power, but Lucas's invention could. Thus, the stalemate continued . . . just as the stalemate continued here with Thomas.
The only way to keep Thomas's hands off the vortex with any degree of real certainty was to remove the ultimate source of the vortex's theories: Lucas. Lucas still couldn't help but think that the only true way to end problems with the vortex was to end his own life. He was the problem; he was the solution. It was that simple.
Another shudder shook Lucas's body. He closed his eyes, avoiding Bridger's concerned gaze. However, there was one huge problem in his solution: Thomas. Now Thomas knew that Lucas would try to kill himself, he would be certain no opportunities for future suicide attempts would be allowed. He would be guarded at every second.
Lucas, as the original architect of the vortex, the original designer of its odd theories and complex formulae, was the only one who truly understood renegade vortex operations. He was crucial to Thomas's project. Lucas doubted that Thomas could reproduce his renegade vortex without him. It wasn't false pride that made him think this, but simple common sense: it was his vortex. It was completely experimental. His notes, while specific, were not specific enough to teach someone how to reproduce his vortex.
And, every day, he thanked whatever that this was true. He hadn't updated the notes simply because of time pressures. If he had, Thomas could very easily create a vortex with or without his help.
Slowly, he glanced at Bridger. He cleared his throat. "You're right, sir. I know . . . I know he would have killed you. All . . . all of you. You're right." He shivered, avoiding Bridger's gaze. He didn't want to have to explain the implications of what he'd just said: not now, not ever. Clearing his throat, he softly continued, "But he wouldn't have been able to create a vortex without me."
Bridger stared at him, brows sharply pointed, clearly wanting an explanation.
Lucas looked over at Nelson, who was sitting at Alicia Noyce's side. He inclined his head towards the scientist. "Nelson could help him put the vortex together, at the initial stages. I'd imagine that's why he's here in the first place. He would understand some of it, for he's a scientist--and a good one, at that."
Nervously, Lucas played with the corner of his blanket, wishing he didn't need to explain what was on his mind; however, he knew that wasn't the case. "Sir, I've been working on this project for . . . a very long time. It's taken me years to work out the dynamics of it. I didn't actually start to design it until recently, but . . . I'd say it's been on my mind for about six years."
Bridger's eyebrows shot up in surprise. He blinked quickly.
"I've only written some of the material down, though--almost all of it on the standard, 'normal' vortex: the one that behaves according to the laws of physics." He watched as his news sunk into Bridger's mind. Bridger had a quick mind; he immediately saw the point Lucas was making. "While Thomas might be able to create a normal vortex, I doubt he'll be able to create a renegade vortex . . . at least not along the lines we're talking here. It took me years to create a level nine renegade vortex. Years, sir: not days or weeks. Thomas doesn't want to wait years to work out this puzzle. On top of that, it may even be theoretically impossible to predictably harness one. From what I know, I think it could be done . . . but only with the correct knowledge on how to do it."
A charged release of breath preceded Bridger's low voice. "So . . . this brings us back to why you tried to kill yourself. It was to stop Thomas from using that knowledge."
Lucas simply nodded.
Bridger stared at his hands for a moment, face deep in thought. Several minutes of silence stretched between them. Kristin shifted at Bridger's side, her face troubled, dark.
At last, Bridger looked at Lucas. "I understand your reasoning, Lucas . . . more than I would like to understand. I see the . . . logic behind it, but . . . but I still think there must be another way out of this. There must be a way that doesn't involve you ending up dead." Inwardly, Bridger swore that he would make sure there was such a way. He'd make damned certain there was a way, if it was the last thing he did. After a second, he sighed. "However . . . however, it doesn't seem that that's a possible option now." Thank God.
Lucas sighed at Bridger's "another way," thinking that Bridger would never see the truth behind what he had said because Bridger couldn't accept the "solution" Lucas had seen. It warmed his heart, knowing that Bridger cared for him enough to be unable to accept any solution that ended with Lucas dead--but it still made facing their particularly grim circumstances difficult. However, it was unlikely Lucas would get the chance to kill himself again, anyway. His plan was no longer an option: Thomas would find ways to make sure of that. So, instead of commenting on what he now thought was a moot point, Lucas simply glanced around the room again. He cleared his throat. "Thomas put us all together? That seems odd."
Bridger looked at Lucas sharply before simply following his redirection of their conversation. "Yeah. Like I said, kiddo . . . he was pretty much shocked by what you did. I think you shook him enough that he didn't even bother to think that putting us all together was not the brightest idea."
"How are they?"
Bridger followed his eyes to Alicia and Bill Noyce. His face darkened. "They're still alive, though it seems barely . . ."
"There are some broken bones, and they both seem to have concussions," Kristin filled in as Bridger's voice drifted. "Admiral Noyce seems a bit better off than his daughter. Thomas really hurt her."
For a moment, there was silence between them. Lucas looked between Bridger and Westphalen. He then glanced across the room at Nelson and the Noyces. Bruises covered every face that met his eye. Even Bridger was bruised up. He wondered how much longer any of them would survive Thomas's mad behavior.
Slowly, he asked, "Do you think he has us watched right now?"
"No. I checked earlier. As far as I can tell, at least, there aren't any wires or recorders in here." Bridger sighed before shrugging. "They could have some very carefully screened, but Thomas seemed to place us in here suddenly, on the whim. I'm thinking the place wasn't set up for screening us."
Lucas was almost afraid to ask, but felt he had to anyway: "Anyone got any plans for getting out of this mess?"
To Lucas's surprise and elation . . . Bridger actually grinned. He clapped his hand on Lucas's shoulder. "We were just talking about that before you woke up."
Bridger paused. For a good minute, Lucas waited, expectantly looking between Bridger and Westphalen: neither chose to elaborate. Lucas wanted to throttle the Captain. He finally prompted, voice impatient, "And? What did you two think of?"
With a smile, Bridger leaned forward to relate the plan.
As Bridger related the plan, however, Lucas's face lost all color.
He swallowed hard, heart aching within.
*****
Now sitting by himself, Lucas shook his head over what he'd heard. It was a good plan: he had to give Bridger that. It was definitely a better plan than his had been, for it had more chance of success.
It didn't involve any obvious forms of suicide, either, which was certainly an advantage.
He just didn't like it.
It was dangerous.
It was overly complex. It depended on too many "ifs" and "maybes" for his comfort. Too many things could go wrong. Too many unexpected variables could enter the situation, absolutely nullifying Bridger's plan.
And it left him out of the loop, almost entirely.
That he didn't like at all. No, not one bit.
But he didn't see what choice he had in the matter. He'd argued; he'd counter-argued; when that had failed, he'd even pleaded, begging for them to listen to him--pleading for them to stop this before it began. But Captain Bridger and Dr. Westphalen had already made up their minds on this. And they'd told him, in no uncertain words, that he would not try to interfere.
He'd promised. He hadn't had much choice.
However, again . . . his promise didn't mean he liked it.
Bridger's assured words came back to him, hauntingly confident: "All we need to do, Lucas, is manipulate the manipulator." Bridger had shrugged, as if that were the easiest thing in the world to do: manipulate the manipulator. A second later, voice again suggesting he wasn't the least bit worried over the whole plan, Bridger had said, "Then we'll win."
Yeah. Then we'll win. Simple as that.
Bridger had made it all sound so . . . easy, so reasonable. But Lucas knew, as Bridger had to know, too, that it wouldn't be that easy. Thomas wouldn't make many errors, not when this much was at stake. He was a master at his art: manipulation.
"Manipulating the manipulator" might be easy with some opponents . . . but when the manipulator was General Thomas, one of the most powerful men in the UEO, it could never be easy.
Never.
*****
Sitting in his office, his dark eyes almost black in their anger and intensity, General Thomas stared at the wall. Fury burned within him: deep, pounding, vicious fury. He wanted to kill something--or someone. He wanted to kill: now, this second, right here.
He pictured the boy's blood splashing across the floor . . .
He wanted to kill that kid scientist for trying to kill himself. Wolenczak had no right., no right at all to take his own life when Thomas's plans relied on him.
His men would have to watch Wolenczak closely, following his every move--predicting his actions. There could be no doubt: Wolenczak was dangerous. He was now a variable beyond Thomas's control.
Thomas didn't like variables outside his control.
If Wolenczak killed himself, Thomas's plans would surely die with him. Gone would be his dreams of ridding the world of NAP and its filthy contagion, its plague of wretched ideas and philosophies, its infecting grasp for power. Gone would be his goals, goals necessary for the survival of so many, goals drawn to ensure that NAP never held more power over a world all too ignorant of its taint. All would be swept away . . . all with one slash of a knife.
It simply would not happen. Wolenczak would not kill himself.
He didn't care less if the boy hung himself from the very pinnacle of the seaQuest's hull or slit his own belly down the center, like a pig set for dinner--as long as it was after he was done with him. But until then, Wolenczak wouldn't come near a knife, a rope, or a simple nail file. No, he wouldn't touch anything as dangerous as a fork.
Growling inwardly, Thomas turned his mind to other, more inspiring matters.
He had a war to start.
He looked at the small disc held in his hands. It was less than two inches across, hardly noticeable . . . but it would change the world as he knew it. It would change everything.
A smile slowly twisted his lips. He carefully slid the disc back into its protective cover, then slid the disc and cover into a plain manila envelope.
His glance settled on the clock. It was time.
Manila envelope clutched in his hand, Thomas headed out the door. For there was one other certainty in this world, one that he respected: Section Seven agents waited for no one--not even him.