He sat cross-legged, lazily flipping through the pages of his latest risqué magazine courtesy a la Kreig. A light tapping easily distracted him. "Hey Dar." His aquatic friend yipped and chirped from behind the glass. "Yeah why not? Race you to the moonpool!" Grabbing his trunks from a pile of clothing on the floor he took off out the hatch. Laughing he rounded the corner to meet his friend and was greeted with a face full of water. "Very funny fish breath. Next time just wait 'till I get changed Ok?" Abruptly O'Neil's voice interrupted over the moonpool intercom.

"Lucas are you there?" Jogging over to the side he slapped the panel.

"Yeah what is it Tim?"

"You have an incoming call, where do you want it?"

"Umm patch it through to my room I'll be there in a sec." Frowning thoughtfully he left the pool tossing a grin at Darwin on his way out. "Later Dar." Entering his quarters he unceremoniously dumped himself into the chair by the vidscreen.

"Can I help you?" The man was older, dressed in a dark suit. This was clearly a formal call, but he noted that the clothing lacked a certain fashionable look that would have marked the man in the business profession. Lucas shifted uneasily in his seat.

"Are you Lucas Wolenczack?"

"Yes."

"My name is George Baker. I was hired by your father to deal personally with the issues regarding Cynthia Holt." Lucas nodded, still not quite understanding who this man was but following the thread of conversation. "As you probably know I've dealt with all the arrangements and personal details for the funeral, but there are still one or two things I need to.."

"What?" His face drained of colour, hands rested limply on the armrests of the chair and his breathing came in shallow rasps.

"Miss Cynthia Holt's funeral arrangements. Your father hired me to.." The older man trailed off at the shocked expression on the teen's face. "You did know. I mean Lawrence must have told you, because the funeral was four days ago and, and…Oh my. Dear Lord I'm so sorry, I'll call back another time this really isn't very appropriate at.."

"What? No I mean wait. How did it happen?" The man shifted forward in his seat as if by closing the physical distance between the two he could somehow lessen the impact of the words he was about to speak.

"From what I hear she died of liver failure. Her alcoholism caused her death." Alcohol. She'd always drunk but never that much, had she? I mean yeah she'd had a little too much on the odd occasion, but never regularly. It was only sometimes the arguments with Lawrence were worse than normal because she drank. She just couldn't be reasoned with-but she never drank anything like enough. It was never a problem before. No-one would have ever thought that she'd..I should have known-at least I could have rung more often, forced her to speak to me. Maybe if I'd tried a little harder I could have helped her. But now..The tears welled up and he felt the bile rise convulsively in his throat. The only thing that kept him together was his anger. Why hadn't Lawrence told him?

"Why did you ring? Is dad paying you to do his dirty work for him?"

"I'm terribly sorry, I had no idea. He just asked me to clear a few things up. He never told me you didn't know."

"What did you ring for then?"

"I'm not sure now is really the best time." Lucas leaned back into his chair, deceptively calm, his emotions broiling beneath the surface.

"Tell me."

"I'm supposed to deal with Miss Holt's personal affects and deliver them to her next of kin." Lucas relaxed and dejectedly sank back into his chair. It was surreal as he opened his mouth and from a distance listened to the words he spoke

"Just sell it all. I want to divide the money between charities. If you could sort it out?"

"But that's just it. You're not the next of kin."

"Excuse me?"

"I have to inform you that since Miss Holt left no will all of her possessions pass directly to her mother."

"How is that possible?" The man leaned back tiredly into his own chair gazing sadly at the boy in front of him.

"Because legally speaking Lucas, you are not her son." His voice was raw and hollow as the broken words awkwardly tumbled out.

"But that means.." He sat there in twisted confusion as seconds ticked loudly by. The transition came slowly. First he was utterly lost which was followed by the recognition of the truth and with it the resignation. "Mail me the documents."

"Listen Lucas I'm sorry, I really am so, so very sorry." Flinching away from the pity Lucas reached up and flipped the screen off. Then he just sat. Frozen in the silence of his room. In a far off corner of his mind he noted the distant humming of the engines, laughter and mutterings of far off conversation interrupted occasionally by the clanging of pans in the galley. Timeless. The mood was broken abruptly by the whirring of the printer as it noisily printed off his incoming mail. Letter from Mr Baker. He would soon receive his personal documents in the post, National Insurance number, National savings bonds, medical insurance number, birth certificate. Birth certificate. He was receiving a copy through the printer now. He glanced at the top. Date of Birth, Hospital, Height , Weight, all in order.

Name: Lucas Samson

Mother: Jessica Samson

Father: Unknown

And there it was. The irrefutable proof in front of him. The tangible reality that dragged him painfully back to the present. Rolling onto the floor he sobbed fitfully into the cold grating. Crying for the mother he'd lost, the mother he'd never known and for himself. Forlornly he fingered the paper, tracing his mothers' name softly with his fingertips. Why? How could she? All of them! Fragile hope lay between the lines. His desperate need to understand left no room for anger with his father. He felt unbearably full. Stumbling towards the bathroom he retched uncontrollably, grasping the white plastic edges in a death grip spasmodically with his hands. Continuously retching and retching until all that was left were painfully dry heaves, but he just couldn't stop. Eventually he collapsed weakly to the floor, tears streaking down his face. Crawling to the basin he ran cold water and washed his face and mouth. Composing himself he stood up and strode determinedly to his computer. He began to type.