Project MINA Slash

by Kei

An experiment looses horror onboard the Seaview.

4. 4

9



If it wasn't one thing, it was another -or so the saying went...and in this case, it seemed to be the truth.


Seaman Brown's face was a mask of frustration and anxiety as he sprinted along the corridor that led most directly to the Primary Circuitry Room -or as close as a man could come to sprinting when the deck beneath his shod feet seemed frozen in a permanent list to one side, throwing his balance one way or another. One thing or another... Every time that he dared to think that the crew of the Seaview had seen the last of their troubles on this ill-fated cruise, something new would come up and he would almost seriously begin to wonder whether anyone had seen a black cat cross the walkway in front of Seaview's bow while she had waited within her pen at the Institute.

The Circuitry Room wasn't supposed to be his watch -not for some hours yet anyway- but on Mr. O'Brien's orders, it had become his watch...at least, until he found out why the two men assigned there were not responding to the Admiral's summons. The light level within this section of the submarine was barely at sixty-percent of normal even though the auxiliary Circuitry Room had taken up as much of the slack as it was able from the damaged primary, but it shouldn't have to have been that way in the first place -not unless there was something really wrong...and in light of what he had been told, he didn't really doubt it -as much as he hoped otherwise.

The weight of the plasma gun at his side was a comforting thing even if only in a small way.

In some perverse sense, he almost hoped that something was wrong -almost- because if Markowitz and Svensen were goofing off in there; if he had been called to the primary Circuitry Room for no more reason than that his fellow crewmen had taken leave of their senses and were screwing around, he would personally kill the both of- "What the-" Crewman Ron Brown's thick eyebrows drew together with his puzzled frown -the door to the Circuitry Room had been left unlocked and open...and that didn't happen.

Ever.

If those guys were just goofing off...

Crewman Brown flicked the safety catch on his plasma side-arm to the "off" position with a quick jerk of his thumb as he deftly slipped the weapon out of its holster and with his other hand, reached for the metal handle of the door. At his touch, the door swung open freely and hit the bulkhead within with a resounding bang.
Almost immediately, the uneasy young seaman was hit by a smell -a strong acrid smell- the stench of charred plastic and wires whose source he quickly found in a series of computer relays within the internal lighting array controls that were scorched in some places -nearly blackened- melted in others; and some were sparking even now -all of this he saw in a glance ...even as he realized that the hand with which he had grasped the inner handle was sticky; stained with same dark red liquid that painted the metal handle itself...and stained the deck at his feet in a smeared trail that thickened and led his eyes past the banks of computer circuitry and up in a solid stain on the bulkhead, ending at -or was it entering- the cavernous man-sized opening of an uncovered ventilation duct.

Brown peered sharply at the damaged circuitry, eyes widening with dread. Plasma fire. Only the raw, concentrated energy from a plasma gun or rifle at close range could have melted those units in that way. Admiral Nelson's lectures on the matter had been thorough and he had actually listened with more than half an ear.. But who..? No...why would Markowitz and Svensen have fired at a circuitry board? The answer was grotesquely simple -they hadn't. Obviously. They had been shooting at something else. Something that had hit so fast and so hard that they hadn't had time to call for help. Something that had taken them and- Brown swung around sharply, holding his weapon before him, startled by the half-seen ghost of a shadow at the edge of his peripheral vision -an image that stayed and, which he realized, was no mere shadow.

Brown had heard the tales, the scuttlebutt that had grown more fanciful and gruesome with each telling, and he had certainly listened to what the Admiral had said over the intercom a short while ago -and he had been inclined to doubt at least some of if. But not now. And never again. The "shadow" was actually a solid and mobile thing -a being- and as the figure emerged from behind a computer console at the far end of the room, he saw a crewman with whom he had served since the day that Seaview had first put to sea and whose name had recently been added to the list of the missing crewmen -but at the same time, it was not the same seaman Butler he had known.

Never had a man in his recollection appeared so much like a wild, rabid dog; covered in drying stains of sanguine red, bloody spittle dripping from an open mouth that revealed the fangs within, his ragged duty uniform still smoldering on one sleeve where the fabric had been burned and, in some places, melted -by the concentrated energies of a plasma gun at its highest setting? Yes...it had to be that. God...it had to be that.

Ice-cold fear stole over Brown's mind as his finger tightened on his high-tech weapon's trigger -and then stopped, frozen there- uncertainty suddenly pressing him to hesitate when logic demanded otherwise. This thing had been his friend, a shipmate with whom he had served well ...and he hadn't attacked. Not yet at any rate. If anything, Butler appeared more confused than mad, staring at his former comrade with wild eyes full of fear. Brown felt himself take a tentative step forward. "Chad... Do you remember me, Chad? It's me, your buddy -Ron. Maybe I can help you if you-"

The moment passed as quickly as it had come. Sudden bestial rage twisted the tortured face of crewman Butler almost as soon as seaman Brown had uttered the man's given name and the thing that had been Ron Brown's shipmate launched itself at him even as he brought the plasma gun to bear and a startling-blue jet of energy hit the rampaging creature full in the chest, hurling him backwards towards a scorched computer terminal and the world exploded.

Time passed...seconds and then minutes...but crewman Brown did not feel it as he lay in a world where darkness was his only companion. The next thing of which he was consciously aware was that his eyelids had opened and that he was staring into the out-of-focus, deeply concerned face of one of the members of Seaview's medical corps bending over him, shining a penlight into his eyes, as he lay flat on his back on the deck of the primary Circuitry Room, the back of his skull pulsing with pain. Brown tried to sit up, pushing himself up by the palms of his hands, but was gently and firmly restrained by the white-coated corpsman. "Take it easy, Ron. Looks like you received a nasty bump."

"I...did..?" Brown said with a note of uncertainty that he didn't really understand. He winced at the stabbing pain at the back of his head -oh yes, he had indeed bumped his head all right. He remembered that much and he would remember it for some time yet.

"Yeah..." The corpsman concurred. "It's lucky I was passing this way -I don't know what you were firing at or why, but you must have hit one of the boards -you're lucky...lucky that the explosion only knocked you flat. It could have been worse."

"Yes..." Just then, seaman Brown pushed himself into a semi-sitting position, sudden dread pressing him to anxiously scan his surroundings despite the awful discomfort in his head. "Wait! Butler! Did I get him!"

"Butler?" A frown furrowed the corpsman's brow -he had seen the bloodstains. "Ron...there's no-one else here. You were found alone."

Crewman Brown sank back against the cold, hard deck, wondering whether it was possible to be insane and not know it.




The dead were restless -restless and no longer willing or able to deny it.
The harsh glow beyond their shadow-bound crawlspaces no longer held them in the thrall of fear and pain as it had -it could not. The light was weaker, much weaker than it had been in the previous hours -one of their own had seen to that- and the intensity of their collective thirst had become such that even half-blind, they would have begun to venture out anyway...as they were starting to now.

To hunt...to feed.

One or two at first, and then, slowly, more; clinging still to hidden places until they found their prey -or their prey found them. But it still wasn't enough. The kills were too few. For reasons their fevered brains only vaguely understood, most of the hunted were hiding behind tightly sealed hatches of steel, and few would venture beyond those blockades save for the determined and the foolish...

...but Project M.I.N.A.'s viral offspring was almost as intelligent a disease as it was baffling and virulent -when human intelligence and cunning was necessary to its continuation, it allowed it and tapped into the brains of those it possessed. Little by little, the changelings shed the remnants of hesitation and pity as their natural canniness returned, developed, and diversified among them under the direction of overwhelming instinct -and suddenly, they knew what to do.




It wasn't supposed to have happened this way.

A small sigh escaped Lieutenant O'Brien's tightly pressed lips as his dark eyes scanned the handwritten report in his slightly trembling hands, taking in the information with dull half-interest. He should have been delighted -he knew that- because by and large, the reports were hopeful: Seaview, while not at her best by any a long shot, was but a few steps away from being base-minimally seaworthy -but, as he jotted his signature at the bottom of the report and handed it to the yeoman who had presented it to him, he felt a familiar shudder travel the length of his spine.

His signature at the bottom of the page -it shouldn't have been there. It was Commander Morton's place to... No, it was Captain Crane's place to... The young lieutenant uttered mimed choice obscenities as he stuffed his pen back into his breast pocket, not certain at whom he was more angry -the fates...or himself.

It would have been a bald-faced lie to have said that he possessed no ambitions beyond his present rank or that command -full command- held no fascination for him, but to have attained command -even this temporary one- under such grim circumstances did not sit well with him. His executive commander was desperately ill and isolated for the good of the crew, perhaps dying or worse, and his commanding officer...

Having only just come to terms with the Captain's death, it was sorely difficult to accept that he was really alive after all. It was harder still to accept what the crew had been told about the virus that was threatening to sweep them in its wake...and to imagine so respected and decent a man as Lee Crane so afflicted and, perhaps, beyond all help... No, he did not want authority under such circumstances -but wanting and obeying were two separate concepts, weren't they? He didn't want the Conn, not like this, but he had it because it was his duty, and the Admiral had ordered it.

It was as simple -and difficult- as that.

"Sir?" Lieutenant O'Brien looked up wearily from the plotting board and found himself face to face with Chief Sharkey who carried with him a thermal mug from which issued a plume of steam and a familiar strong aroma. "Some coffee, sir?" the Chief of the Boat asked. "I thought that you might like a cup."

O'Brien cracked a beleaguered half-grin and gingerly accepted the steaming mug. He had no real idea how the Chief Petty Officer had managed to get such a thing to the Control Room under their presently restricted situation -and, for the moment, he was not inclined to bother asking. Regardless of how the stimulating brew had found its way here, he needed it. "Thanks, Chief, you've been reading my mind." The Lieutenant carefully sipped the hot brew and grimaced as it passed his lips and inched its way down his throat, the steaming liquid too hot, overly brewed, and as bitter as battery acid -in other words, it was perfect. "If this doesn't keep me awake, nothing will."

Sharkey nodded sympathetically -he understood. Over the years he had served in the Navy and the ParaNavy, he had been mother / elder brother / taskmaster / instructor to more men than he could count -enlisted and officers- and sometimes knew better than they when they were pushing themselves too far for too long -the young lieutenant was just such a man; bright, eager, and inching closer to collapse from exhaustion with every minute that passed...but how to mention that fact or if... "Uh...with the Lieutenant's permission..." O'Brien regarded him, questioning in his silence. "If you were so inclined, sir, the nose o' the ship has been declared secure an' from what I hear, the seats there are more comfortable than some o' the bunks on this ship..."

Lieutenant O'Brien chuckled ever so slightly under his breath, understanding all the more why this crew liked Francis Sharkey so much. "Thanks, Chief, but I think I can hold out until I'm relieved of the-"

"Sirs!" Both Sharkey and O'Brien started at the sound of the voice of Seaview's communications' officer who sat, no longer hunched over his radio console after so many hours of scanning, repairing, and silently cursing with few hours sleeping, but sitting bolt upright, his free hand pressed against the headset that he wore, his expression vacillating between excitement and puzzlement. Sparks bobbed his head in acknowledgment as his lieutenant and chief petty officer approached. "I'm not sure what exactly, but something's going on up on the surface!"

O'Brien frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"

"Signal's still not right, but it's a lot stronger even though we still can't transmit..." Sparks made some adjustments at his console. "But here's the kicker: it looks like several other countries sent survey ships to investigate the Antarctic 'quakes' -Russia, England, Japan, and others- and were turned away by InterAllied. Several government reps are grumbling about being kept in the dark by their own higher governments about what's going on in this area and..." Sparks paused, listening to the sometimes intermittent signal coming through his earpiece before regarding his superiors. "Some of the loudest grumbling's coming from the U.S.!" O'Brien and Sharkey started with surprise. "Seems an American sub, the S.S.N. Stingray-"

O'Brien frowned in thought. "Yes... I've heard of it."

"Yes, sir," Sparks concurred. "They were sent by our east coast security patrol corps when the quakes, er, the explosions set off some long range security sensors, but they were turned away and told to steer clear of the area as well. There's apparently a lot of squawking going on right now between their corps and InterAllied. So far, InterAllied's still holding rank as a secret service organization."

"So many levels of government that no-one knows what the other is doing...and sooner or later someone has to give." O'Brien shook his head slowly, embarrassed at the confession on his lips. "God as my witness, I have no idea which way I should pray for the argument to go. I just hope-"

At that moment, there was a loud repetitive pounding at the Control Room's aft hatchway, interrupting Lieutenant O'Brien who glared at the sealed insensate entrance for a moment as if offended by the disruption of his oratory before he grinned almost sheepishly and crossed the distance, a troubled Chief Sharkey trailing close behind him as the Control Room crew surreptitiously cast glances their way. O'Brien paused before the imposing steel barrier. "All right -who is it!" Silence. No response. The young officer glanced uncertainly at his chief petty officer who returned the look the same way. O'Brien exhaled in frustration. "Well -sound off! Who is it!"

"...Lieutenant Jr. Grade Marcello D'Angelo...sir," came the low, vaguely rough voice from behind the impassable steel barrier. There was a long pause; a strangely long pause and then: "Reporting for...duty, sir. I...was sent to relieve you of the watch."

The troubled frown disappeared from Lieutenant O'Brien's brow as he nodded at the muffled sound of the familiar voice, tiredness coaxing him to dismiss the strange nebulous unease that had laid hold of him in exchange for a tentative sense of relief. Finally. He was far more tired than he cared to admit even to himself. "All right, D'Angelo, I'll-" The young lieutenant had reached for the hatch dog, about to undog it, when a rough hand laid a tight grip on his arm, insistently pulling the extended hand away from the metal wheel. "Sharkey, what the-"

The scowl of profound annoyance on O'Brien's visage faded, gradually replaced by puzzlement as the Chief continued to vigorously shake his head, eyes wide with obvious frantic alarm, a finger pressed to his lips as he thrust a scrap of note paper on which a message had been hastily written into his superior officer's hand; a massage which simply read: "Lt. Jr. Gr. D'Angelo is listed as 'missing'!"

O'Brien's eyes also widened with acute alarm as he silently mouthed: "Are you sure!" The Chief Petty Officer nodded apprehensively. O'Brien cleared his throat awkwardly, a thin film of sweat beading up on his brow as he searched for a voice that now seemed unwilling to heed his summons. "Ah... D'Angelo... I don't see your name on the duty roster here. You...must have made a mistake."

An oppressive silence had descended upon the Control Room crew; so pervasive that even the flashing and blinking instrumentation that surrounded them seemed to have fallen still.

At the hydrophone, Patterson whispered a half-remembered childhood prayer -he was afraid...and he believed that he knew why. As for the others, one or two had half-seen the Chief's note as he had scribbled it and still others remembered what their officer on deck had not -the contents of the last census of the crew and that Lt. Jr. Gr. D'Angelo was not on it -either way, everyone could almost sense a palpable wrongness to all of this as the silence stretched on for far too long...and then: "The...Admiral sent me ..." This time, D'Angelo's voice was rougher, much rougher, with the kind of edge that said the speaker was holding back a terrible anger and only barely succeeding. "Let me... Let me...in!"

O'Brien swallowed deeply, his fear too close to the surface of his being for him to deny entirely. He had once considered a career in acting, but had discovered that he had simply lacked the talent for it -this was more proof of that fact. He sighed aloud. "I don't think so, D'Angelo."

"Damn you! Let me in! " Crew standing by the hatch shrank back instinctively as the metal barrier all but shook with the resounding force of someone or something pounding heavily against it from the other side beyond their sight -once, and then again, and again. The sound of it reverberating off the bulkheads as fearful crewmen instinctively grabbed their side-arms, ready to fire at whomever or what ever seemed determined to enter. "I don't believe this...I don't believe this..." Patterson muttered fearfully, sweat beading up on his paling, haunted face as his grasp tightened on the plasma gun clenched in his hands. "They - they're using battering rams on the hatch!"

"No..." Sharkey said through clenched teeth, eyes riveted on the threatened barrier. A sharp gasp escaped his tightened lips as a rivet popped from the rim around the hatch as the barrier shuddered under the thunderous impact of another blow. "Just their bodies." He flipped the safety catch of his plasma gun to the "off" position. "And if we can't figure out what to do soon they're gonna just walk in an' say 'How do you do?'"

The repetitive pounding grew louder and louder, the hatch shaking now with each thunderous blow -and then it stopped. Just like that. Echoes faded into nothing as the Control Room crew glanced at each other and then around themselves ...wondering ...fearing...straining against the limits of their hearing only to find -nothing. There was a great woosh of exhaled air with their collective sigh of tentative relief. "I guess..." Sharkey said with a cautious, weak grin. "I guess they just gave up, you know?"

"And none too soon, Chief," Patterson said, uneasily observing the hatchway door, its thick hinges ever so slightly bowed inwards. "Another few minutes and-"

"Sh!" All eyes turned sharply in the direction of Lieutenant O'Brien as the young officer shook his head slowly, finger pressed to his lips, eyes staring upwards before he said, sotto voce: "Patterson -your trouble light." Casting a puzzled look at his superior officer, Patterson handed over the electronic torch and watched with wide, questioning eyes as the young lieutenant stealthily, almost cat-like, approached a sealed, solid metal plate covering a recently added inspection passage that led between the ceiling of the Control Room and the remote periscope housing, to some auxiliary controls on the deck above; a space less than half a meter by half a meter wide, but...

Lieutenant O'Brien reached up, straining slightly, and unlatched the plate which came away easily and then reached up and hoisted himself up and peered into the passageway, the trouble light's glow lessening the darkness a bit as he awkwardly played it along the interior...a moment's hesitation...and then: "Oh...my...God!" O'Brien dropped to the deck heavily, his face ghastly pale. "You there -Jonas! McMichael! Use your plasma guns and weld this thing shut! They're in the inspection passage!"

As the whine of plasma guns and the smell of melting and fusing metal filled the air, there came other sounds -the scratching of fingernails against metal, the thump and shuffle of bodies -several of them- against the solid surfaces above, around, and below...and the ragged hiss of heavy breaths being drawn -it was all around them...everywhere though unseen. Sharkey stared fearfully at Lieutenant O'Brien whose shoulders heaved with his labored breaths. "Sir... That's not gonna hold for too long, you know? They-"

"I know, Chief!" O'Brien interrupted tersely, and then softer: "I know." The Lieutenant frowned, a decision forming behind his dark eyes, as he strided over to the periscope island and grabbed the microphone there. "Admiral Nelson, this is the Control Room!"

The pounding started again.




"I know, Lieutenant -we're barricaded in here too -just hold on!"

Hold on, eh? A small grunt of disgust escaped Nelson's lips as he placed the wall-mounted mike in its cradle, his expression grim and drawn. How long, indeed, could they hold on now? Lieutenant O'Brien's frantic message had not been the first and it would unlikely be the last -as their guest had foretold, they were coming out in force. Reports were coming in from all over the ship -of their crazed, transformed shipmates attacking and thirsting for blood. Sometimes -for the most part and for now- the greater number of his crew remained secure...and safe. But the Admiral of the Seaview had received other reports -other pleas- that were abruptly, hauntingly, cut off in mid-sentence even as a crewman begged for help.

Nelson glared anxiously at the lab door, barricaded and dogged, the dog wheel jammed by his own efforts. He could hear them out there -his maddened crewmen- shuffling and lumbering about, their ragged breaths loud to him in this relative quiet. They had ceased their attack on the barrier -for now- but they would begin again. Soon. That much he knew. It was the nature of any fleshly beast of which he knew to survive and feed -and they were hungry. No powers of divination were needed to know that. The only real question was of how long he and his uninfected crew could keep their attackers at bay -it was a question to which he had no answer.

All at once, the pounding started again.

"It sounds bad."

Nelson regarded the Chief Medical Officer wearily. "It is, Doc. It is." Automatically, the Admiral's fingers closed around the butt of his plasma gun -would it be enough? If their crazed, sick, ravenous crew broke through the temporary and regular barriers, would these weapons be enough to hold them at bay...or kill them? These were medium-wattage plasma-arms, able to take out a rampaging African bull elephant if needs be, but could they deal with the mutated members of his crew? The grim reality of it was that he was no longer certain.

Lee Crane's report of his encounter with a certainly fully transformed Captain Hudson at Station Delta had indicated that it could take repeated full-strength blasts to incapacitate or kill one so fully changed. Yet, a recent report from a crewman indicated that a single low-powered blast could drive off a victim whose change was more recent and, perhaps, less complete. Or did strength and weakness depend on the individual victim as normal capabilities did with ordinary people?

He did not know.

But they had to do something...and the options were few and far in between. Even were he to scuttle this vessel, there was no proof that his mutated crew would drown and die. Had not some of the missing members been in the once flooded sections of the ship only to reappear later alive and reborn? The reports said so. Tests and witnesses indicated that the reborn experienced rapid or instant cellular regeneration and Nelson found himself left with a conclusion that frightened him as much as it awed him...the side-effect of Project M.I.N.A.'s creation was a form of immortality. It's victims had no natural way to die if they could die at all.

Were he to order this ship scuttled, he could not swear that the scuttling charges would work properly -could he promise that the surrounding area would not be poisoned with scattered nuclear material? And even if the charges simply exploded as they were meant to, sending the ship to the bottom, time tended to dim memory and there would no doubt one day be some determined and intrepid diver or science team who would take it into their heads to seek out the sunken, bio-contaminated remains of the dead ship S.S.R.N. Seaview only to possibly bring viral Armageddon to the world above.

"We have to do something!"

"And just what do you suggest, Doc?" Nelson immediately inwardly flinched, regretting his tone of voice. Sarcasm hardly fit the situation and the Chief Medical Officer had been a rock for him as well as the rest of the crew -if there was a good time to admit one's fear, this was as good a time as any. The temporary barricade of hastily plasma-welded lab furniture against the dogged steel hatch shuddered visibly in response to a powerful physical blow from without the sterile room. Whatever his stricken crew members had become, they were strong...very strong, and the barrier wouldn't hold all that much longer. "You're right. You're right, Doc -there must be some way to-"

"Attack them with something that they can't dodge or ignore."

A questioning silence answered corpsman Thibideau's abrupt statement. Nelson regarded him stonily. "Such as..?"

Thibideau returned the icy look with a nervous one of his own, suddenly uncertain whether he dared to speak. They didn't like him -he knew that- and, in truth, he could understand why. He had not exactly been forthcoming, and in light of what they were all going through, he was their only visible, tangible thing at which they could direct their anger -his psychology professor would have been pleased at his assessment- but there was no time for petty anger ...and, for once, his audience was actually listening and waiting for him to continue. "Look, they may be maddened right now, but they are not stupid...and pain still hurts."

Nelson and Doc shared a glance before the Admiral nodded almost cautiously. "Go on..."

"Trés bien..." Thibideau clenched and unclenched his thin fingers, gathering his thoughts. "The victims of this plague hate light -strong light especially...and maybe even frequencies of light which we cannot see -it may be the reason that we have had no evidence of them making any attempt to use plasma weaponry even when they had the chance to do so -the light. And light is about the only weapon we know that is still effective against them. If you run the internal lighting array at full power -as strongly as the ship can take- they'll have no choice but to run back to their hiding places in the vents and passageways -the pain won't let them do anything else!"


Nelson scowled inwardly; both at the nervous young corpsman and at the sounds beyond the barrier, uncertain presently at whom he was angrier. Such a plan had not failed to enter his thoughts, but he knew that repairs made in the primary Circuitry Room were tenuous at best and the auxiliary Circuitry Room had never actually been meant for handling the full load of giant Seaview's enormous power. One error...one weak relay... To do what Thibideau suggested could fry the entire system, leaving them all in the utter darkness of a submerged metal coffin as each life support system failed one by one -if their would-be attackers didn't kill them first. What was the old saying -stuck between a rock and a hard place? How appropriate...and how true. "I take it, Lieutenant, that you have some experience in this."

"Yes, sir," the Canadian corpsman murmured uneasily. "Lieutenant Commander St. Baptiste was instructed to use the plan if necessary to effect his orders when some of our crew tried to escape in the Voyageur -and I don't doubt that he did it- and we did the same-" He flinched as the hatch shuddered again; this time, the seam between the hatchway door and the bulkhead widened ever so slightly. "-at Station Delta."

Nelson grabbed the wall-mike, the order on his lips, before he hesitated and glanced over his shoulder at the young corpsman who stood, staring anxiously at their present shield. "Did it work?"

Thibideau answered quietly and with almost no inflection. "For a time."

"I see." Nelson clicked the mike once. "Auxiliary Circuitry Room -report!" There was a pause -too long- and Nelson clicked the mike again. "Auxiliary Circuitry Room-"

"Auxiliary Circuitry Room. Raye reporting!"

The Admiral of the Seaview allowed himself an instant of relief at the sound of the familiar voice. "Raye, is your watch secure?"

"Yes, sir," came the openly anxious response, "but I don't know for how long. They keep trying to-"

"Listen to me, Raye," Nelson interrupted, needfully abrupt. There was no time for niceties or long explanations. "I want you ready to channel as much current through the internal lighting array as possible -you'll be working in concert with the primary Circuitry Room- and keep it going until I say otherwise. Rig for white in all areas of the ship. Maximum load."

"Sir?"

A shadow of doubt darkened the Admiral's weariness-laden visage, a fleeting instant of hesitation that passed as hard resolution took its place. "Just do as you're told. We don't have much time...and on my word."

"Aye, sir."




The darkness was deep...and it was comforting.

In the grim weak light of Seaview's corridors, those with eyes meant only for darkness could see better than any creature of the daytime hours, and could move and hunt as freely as availability of prey allowed. This was their world and they were no longer able to care that the lives they sought belonged to humans with whom they had recently served. It no longer mattered-

All at once, the pounding of flesh against the stubborn cold metal walls of the great grey submersible ceased as sanguine eyes searched the artificial twilight, narrowing in response...to something. Something they instinctively didn't like. The change was so subtle at first -like the first almost invisible rays of a coming dawn- and in the instant it took to recognize what was happening, the corridors of the S.S.R.N. Seaview were blanched by the naked brilliance of a noonday sun.

Stark white light bleached every dark recess, every hidden corner, and every shadow-shrouded turn in each corridor or room on each deck of the ship. The pounding had stopped, but the corridors were not silent. Where there had been darkness, there was light. Where there had been silence, there were now screams...loud, inhuman wailing as nocturnal eyes were blinded and pallid skin began to burn under the intolerable glare as all thoughts of attack and hunger shrank in the face of it and unendurable pain.

What eyes could no longer see, wildly searching hands quickly found as the agonized creatures sought and found refuge in areas where the light could not touch.




Lieutenant O'Brien closed his eyes, gently massaging their lids in bone-weariness and because, after so many hours of serving in low light and less, the new intense glow in the Control Room was uncomfortably bright. But it was a small price to pay. Messages were coming in from all over Seaview -their attackers were retreating, returning to their refuge within the ship's dark spaces...allowing the rest of them this one, perfect moment of peace.

But they were far from safe. He knew that -and as he searched the haunted expressions of the Control Room crew- he realized that they knew it too. Screams had echoed throughout every corridor only minutes ago -cries of excruciating pain- and to his memory, the nature of the predator was ruled by one immovable law -that the wounded animal was often the most dangerous beast of all...and their attackers would be back.

The light had given Seaview's crew some respite, but the question was: for how long?




"What?"

"You heard me, Lieutenant. How long have we just given ourselves?"

"I don't know!" Thibideau returned Admiral Nelson's hard, steady gaze for a long, drawn-out moment, almost silently challenging the superior officer to blink and back down first, before he himself blinked and then turned his gaze aside with a weary shake of his head which had begun to hurt ever so slightly. He had always considered himself a strong-willed man -perhaps even simply bull-headed- but he had learned, and was learning still, that this American admiral had a will nearly as strong and unyielding as his late, beloved captain -perhaps...just perhaps...even stronger. He had never been able to lock horns with his late captain and win, ultimately, either...not even when Captain Hudson had ordered him to protect and save himself even though the only thing he had wanted to do at that time was to die with his crew.

Thibideau's shoulders slumped slightly as he returned the Admiral's gaze which seemed not to have wavered during his moment of personal silent reverie. "I'm...I'm not sure. It is hard to tell. The weaker ones will be cowed for a longer time than those who are strong -and what they were in their humanity doesn't always tell you what they are now. I've seem the meek become rabid beasts..."

The Canadian corpsman drew his fingers through the limp, stringy strands of ginger that had drifted over his sweat-dampened forehead. "Could be hours. Could be minutes. Just as they did at Delta, the reborn are going to realize that though the light is blinding to them, that they have other enhanced senses that'll guide them like cats in the dark -like sharks they need not sight to kill." Thibideau uttered a small, humorless laugh. "In time, they'll also come to know that though the light burns, it doesn't kill and that their wounds will heal -quickly. They'll emerge again...eventually...when the hunger is much too strong to resist, and they'll be in a wild state of blood-frenzy -twice as aggressive and deadly because they'll be that many times as hungry."

"So..." Nelson said slowly, his voice subdued with something akin to horrified awe. "We only have that long to decide what to do...our final solution."

"Oui..." Thibideau murmured, remembering similar words spoken by his own late commanding officer. "A...final solution...peut être..."

"But...the hunger," Doc said, interjecting, his interest quickening despite himself like an audience watching to a horror movie, bound despite himself by the grotesquery of it. "That could be a weakness we might be able to exploit. I'm not personally aware of the situation of our repair supplies, but could we not shore up the existing barriers? I don't care for the idea myself, but would it not be possible to somehow wait them out-"

"-until they starve to death, Docteur?" Thibideau muttered in poorly hidden derision. "Trust me when I tell you that the healthiest members of this crew would be dead from lack of food and water long before the reborn even began to really succumb from lack of nourishment. Their need was found to be two-fold: to ease their pain and for food -and the changed can't starve as such. The Delta scientists did some tests -if a V3 victim cannot get to food, they eventually go into a semi-aware hibernating state. I guess it protects them until-"

"-until something that smells like lunch comes along..." Nelson leaned against the bulkhead for a moment, weariness threatening to overtake him. "...correct?"

"Yes, sir."

Nelson uttered a weak chuckle. "Dr. Ionescu was one sick bastard...and his cronies were no better."

"Sick?" Thibideau murmured thoughtfully. "Yes -but when you think about it, only for opening Pandora's Box...because ultimately, they did not create the vampire virus. They may have played with it, mutated it, but the disease itself has probably existed as long as our own species -the ancient accounts and legends seem to bear that likelihood out."

"Stories..." Nelson hissed, recalling his maternal grandmother's grim traditional Irish tales of ghosties, ghoulies, and other sundry bloodthirsty spirits, and yet... "Just... stories...

"And legends and stories often have their basis in fact," Thibideau rejoined flatly. "Or have you not heard of the likes of real monsters like Elizabeth Bathory, Vlad Tsepes, or Jeffrey Dahmer and the fact that their bodies upon 'death' were ultimately lost or destroyed?"

Nelson flinched, momentarily silent, before he returned Thibideau's challenging gaze. "I take it back -Dr. Ionescu and his ilk were not sick -they were pure evil."

For this, Thibideau had no smart response. He shrugged limply. "...oui..."

A heavy stillness settled upon the small group; Nelson and Thibideau slumping into waiting chairs, too tired and dejected at this point to think or trade protocol -encrouched barbs, Doc drawn aside by one of the members of the medical corps to read the results of yet another in another in a seemingly endless round of lab reports. It was as if they had come up against a huge metaphorical wall -efforts and tests had gotten the crew of the Seaview this far, but -it seemed- they could go no further.

Almost automatically, Nelson felt his breast pocket and felt the hard lump of metal there, and pulled out the small circlet of gold that he knew so well. It was an act of iron will not to allow the tears to reach his eyes. Lee Crane's signet ring was one of only several like it, given to the select members of the Secret Forces corps of which he had once been a part; a corps that was sent into impossible situations and expected to find solutions for those situations. This situation was impossible.

It was as if he and his crew had gone so far that Fate forbade them to go any further. What were the choices? Scuttle the ship? No, he had already disgarded that option. Set the reactors to go to critical mass? Only if he wanted to vaporize the land mass for miles around while irradiating the rest for the next five thousand years. The modern nuclear submarine was a floating nuclear bomb held in check by a wafer-thin board of circuitry at the best of times and it was all his crew could do to keep Seaview from coming apart at the seams right now -but he couldn't let that happen. He couldn't. Perhaps even worse than that was the fact that Seaview was in a position to leave this place; limping like a crippled dog, but capable...but he didn't dare let that happen either -not with this disease aboard. That was the reality of it.

"Sir?"

"Doc?" Nelson pushed himself from the stiff seat at the Chief Medical Officer's approach, grunting at the discomfort in his equally stiffened back."What is it?"

Doc stared at the computer print-out in his hand, the ghost of a frown on his brow, as he studied its contents. "The latest batch of tests came up negative on Lt. Thibideau here. He's not a carrier. No sign of the virus in any form -dormant or otherwise. However-"

Nelson's expression sharpened, thoughts of inevitable doom put aside for now -even Thibideau's own young visage darkened with uncertainty. "What is it, Doc?"

An anomaly, sir -an anomaly that I've not seen before," Doc confessed a little helplessly. "We must have missed it several times it's so nearly invisible. I've got my lab corps trying to track its nature down now, but... Lieutenant-" Thibideau studied his superior officer silently, eyes wide and questioning, as Seaview's doctor approached him directly. "Are you presently under treatment -for some unusual condition?"

"No."

"In the recent past then? Anything at all -something kept off record?"

"No...sir," Thibideau stated with a small sigh, his thin shoulders hunching slightly. "I have been healthy -especially healthy for the longest time. The last that I was truly ill, well, it's...it's been well over seven years since-"

"Since what?" Nelson glanced sharply from one medical officer to the other as he unconsciously stuffed the signet ring back into his breast pocket. "Since what! So help me, Lieutenant, if this is another one of your mental exercises or games-"

"I am playing no games!" Thibideau snapped aloud and then stopped, stunned by the sheer ferocity of his sudden outburst, and gradually realized that the intensity of his pent-up emotions had him standing up, his fists balled and reddening, himself on the point of literally decking the flag officer -if that was possible. From what he had heard, Admiral Nelson was a tough old bird -and looked it.

The clenched fingers uncurled, slowly, as the corpsman leaned heavily against a storage locker for a moment, thinking. "We went over all this at Delta. I don't see the point..." he muttered. "Damn... Seven years, eight months, thirteen days, and-" Thibideau glanced at his watch. "-and about five hours ago, I received a death sentence from my doctor." There was a curious silence as Thibideau's startled audience waited for him to continue. "He was very matter-of-fact about it, my doctor. He came into the consultation room and said, 'I'm sorry, Lieutenant Thibideau, but you only have a short while to live.' Son of a bitch..."

Doc's brow furrowed with puzzlement and concern. "The medical officer on your ship?"

"No..." Thibideau murmured. "A specialist -in New Québec. I'd been ill more often than usual -too often and for too long to ignore especially as before that, I had not been one to become ill very often if at all. All it took to find the cause were some tests that took a little over an hour to complete -tests even I as a medical man cannot begin to fathom even now- and another five or so minutes of waiting, and I learned that I was dying. The docteur...he called it 'Vargis' Syndrome' and that I had -tops- eight months to live if I was very lucky."

"I...know of it," Doc said gravely, searching his memory. "The disease was named in 2006 by a physician by the name of Leopold Vargis who himself died from it -it's a form of cancer that fries the nervous system. Patients...patients usually die in excruciating pain. Extremely rare...afflicts no more than one person in two million...no known cure...thus far, one hundred percent fatal." Doc shook his head slowly. "My God..."

"However, Lieutenant," Nelson stated with a sardonic half-grin, not nearly as touched by the corpsman's tale, "That either means that you have suffered a terrible case of misdiagnosis -or we have been entertaining a ghost. Would you care to tell me which it is?"

"Neither...sir -and the diagnosis was correct," Thibideau replied flatly. "I had had as many 'second opinions' as I have fingers and toes -I know that the diagnosis was correct."

"Then -not to be too blunt..." Nelson said, studying the corpsman suspiciously. "How are you still here?"

Thibideau sank down onto the creased edge of the desk by which he had stood. "Captain Hudson -he was my XO at the time- came from a family of particularly extensive means. He used his own money to effect a private exploration into alternative methods of treatment and cure -conventional methods have extended my life by, at best, two months...all in pain and delirium. I...I didn't want that. Neither did Adam. Ironically, the most promising program was government-run -still not an approved method even now- and Adam used his influence -and means- to have me enrolled in it. Adam..."

Thibideau blinked at the saline welling up in his eyes, resisting the tide of grief that threatened to overwhelm the mental barriers he had constructed to remain sane and in control. There was no time to grieve -not right now. "It was a shaky proposition at best. The cure was potentially lethal -but then again, as a dying man, my choices were few. The serum contained a derivative from a plant called the 'Lucretia Lilly'."

"I've heard of it. The name is a misnomer -the bloom is actually distantly related to the orchid family." Doc frowned deeply. "It's found only in the deepest areas of the Amazon Rainforest Protectorate -and from root to blossom, it's extremely toxic. Even native animal and insect life is said to instinctively avoid it."

"I know," Thibideau concurred quietly. "The treatment was almost as bad as the effects of the disease itself -it nearly killed me and I was bed-ridden for some months after that, but...I was cured." The corpsman sighed heavily and dramatically threw up his hands in frustration. "But do you not see! It was over seven years ago and I went through all of this with the scientists and doctors at Delta. They even synthesized the serum, but it did not work! I have done many questionable things in my life, but why would I...how could I give you a false hope like that?"

"Not...necessarily a false hope, Lieutenant," Nelson said, his pale eyes narrow as random possibilities sped past his mental sight. For the first time in too long -perhaps despite his better sense- he began to feel something other than sorrow and anxiety -hope? Was that possible? "They might have missed something considering their situation. Doc-" The Chief Medical Officer came to a cautious attention. "I want you to search the medical files for everything we have on Vargis' Syndrome and the Lucretia Lilly -especially its molecular make-up and whether we have the capacity to replicate its active components. Make sure you pump the Lieutenant there for everything he knows about the treatment procedure -use hypnosis if you must."

"Yes, sir, but-"

Nelson strided over to the barrier, almost possessed by a new energy as he began to pull and cut away the individual supports and objects from which their safety barrier had been constructed. "And have the medical corps track down that anomaly in Thibideau's blood -right down to the last enzyme and molecule. I want to know about it inside and out."

"Yes, sir, but-"

"And pull as many men as you need to get the medical synthesizers on-line in full." Nelson cursed aloud as he strained and finally pulled the crowbar he himself had jammed into the dog wheel free from the thick metal loop which now spun freely under his hands. He opened the steel door a crack and cautiously peered out into the brightly lit corridor, his plasma gun drawn, before he glanced back over his shoulder. "There are some notes still in my cabin that may be of some help. Carry on."

With that, the Admiral of the Seaview disappeared into the corridor, leaving behind a chief medical officer who was coming to remember that when possessed by a notion -even ones that seemed to offer only the meager hope that this one did- Admiral Nelson was not one to be moved from his chosen course of action easily. Where Doc had seen cause for nothing but more doubt, Harriman Nelson had seized upon a tiny scrap of hope -he didn't have to understand to obey.

Doc shook his head slightly and clapped an equally bewildered corpsman Thibideau on the shoulder. "The Admiral gave us his orders -let's get on with them, shall we?"




Awareness came in stages.

It started as a simple, tiny spark of consciousness surrounded by an endless, dark nothing and grew...little by little...gradually...until that which was his mind vaulted past the realm of dreams where twisted nightmares and images of personal horror found genesis and back into...darkness.

Just more darkness.

A small growl, almost a cry, escaped his lips as he attempted to move and found that what was left of his mind was ready to do so, his body -though an automatic examination by a free hand told him that each of his limbs were there and all intact- was not willing. Not willing to make the effort.

Not yet.

He could tell that he was lying down...somewhere...prone and horizontal on something that was both firm and soft, and creaked quietly with his slight movement. Cool, soft folds of some kinds of material bunched between his tightly curled fingers, causing the layers to pull against the fevered skin of his face -it was almost soothing. Rubine eyes opened slowly, cautiously, a whisper of instinctive fear echoing at the back of his brain over what he might see...but...as his eyes scanned the deep, he realized that there was very little to see -at least, nothing that he had to fear.

The second thing that he realized was that it was dark and not merely a trick of a semi-conscious mind still partially held in the thrall of nightmarish dreams...and that he knew where he was. The blackness was no hindrance. He quickly found that he could see quite well in this artificial night. This was the place he somehow knew as his Admiral's cabin. Had he not, in another lifetime, been here...been...in many other places as well -remember, remember- as this ship's captain? Was that possible? Difficult ...thoughts were growing foggy and confused...but yes, in some strange way he did remember that much...but...he could not remember how he had gotten here or why... Just then, a surge of unpleasant memories came -of blinding white light, of...of excruciating pain, and of burning! Burning!

He sat up sharply, compelled by the memory of the light scalding his flesh like boiling water or acid, the skin puckering and blistering under the seemingly inescapable glare...and then it was gone; the memory reduced to weak imagery of a half-recollected nightmare...something like relief replacing the fear. As he cautiously moved a little further, the mattress of the bunk beneath his body groaned in loud protest, the thin sheet and blanket in which he had cocooned himself falling away to land on either the mattress itself or on the deck in loose heaps.

How did he get here? Didn't know. Didn't... Again came the bits and pieces of memory; images of bright light and pain...and something else. A need. A need that had nothing to do with thirsting or feeding, and everything to do with escaping that damning glare, and finding somewhere...some...place that was...safe?

Yes...a safe place.

A place that was safe from the light.
As curiosity overcame instinctive caution, nocturnal eyes quickly scanned his surroundings, missing nothing. The Admiral's cabin...yes...but different. It was...a wreck? One of the Admiral's best dress uniforms had been stuffed tightly against the small space between the door and the deck...the desk lamp smashed...the wall light also...and the ventilation grate had been torn or pushed from the bulkhead, the opening covered now with a bath towel, its topmost corners pinned to the wall by simple thumb tacks that had somehow been literally driven into the hard material of the bulkhead by a frantically hammering fist. His own? He didn't remember it...but he didn't doubt it either.

Escape...anything to escape that damning light. Safe... He felt safe here...as he somehow knew he had many times before.

Safe.

Protected.

Loved..?

Even as that whisper of a thought crossed his confused mind, a sharp, almost yelping growl escaped his tightly pressed lips as an intolerable, torturous itch erupted on the exposed skin of his hands and face where the light had burned him the worst. Instinctively, he lapped at the ugly welts on the backs of his hands, the new roughness of his tongue easing the discomfort somewhat, before he examined the wounds more closely and began to scratch at the damaged epidermal layer, revealing the new, healthy and fully restored skin beneath the dead sheath above it, the dry, puckered skin on his cheeks also falling away in flakes at a mere touch.

In this quietude -even his confounded state of mind- Lee Crane found himself studying the new discovery with fascination that bordered on awe -he might even have pored over the wonder of it a little longer except that, like an automatic alarm, his senses had suddenly pricked up, keyed and sharp -danger!

Danger was coming his way -and though he did not know why, despite the thirst which reared up within him again because of the nourishment his body had used to effect his personal miracle and because he needed more blood therefore, despite the fact that the hunger usually, eventually, emboldened him as nothing else could, he remained still, fearing this approaching danger as he had not before and as he did no other.

This place was no longer safe.




Somewhere between Sick Bay and his cabin, Harriman Nelson had gone from striding to jogging to all-out running, by-passing two or three work details who labored in the uncomfortable glare with obvious unease, running and ignoring the whisper in his mind of what he supposed would be considered by most good sense. Perhaps what corpsman Thibideau had said was indeed true -perhaps the scientists at Delta had done all they could with their abortive attempt at a cure for Project M.I.N.A's unholy creation...but...perhaps not.

It was that tiny ember of hope that burned within him now and fired him up in a way that this cruise had all but made him forget that he could burn -with the hope of defying certainly insurmountable odds as he and his crew had done before. There was a possibility that he was deluding himself, but he refused to accept that -not while there was still a chance to survive and avoid fulfilling the vow he had made in silence to the one he loved and aloud to a friend who barely knew him anymore. There was so little time for a miracle to come his men's way -if one existed for them at all. The number of the missing was too high to ignore, and intolerable hunger would eventually press the virus' victims to venture out of their dark hiding places to hunt...to feed.

"What the Devil..?" The run became a faltering trot and then, a hesitant step as Nelson drew closer to the closed door behind which his quarters remained. Why..? Why the hesitation? He didn't really know. It was... Nelson's brow furrowed deeply as he felt yet again that strange compulsion -that overwhelming compulsion- that had made him look upon horrors he hadn't wished to see in the containment room, but this time, he didn't see horror, or empty containment chambers. It was simply a door -his door- a barrier underneath which no light could issue because someone had stuffed a cloth into the space between the door and the deck.

Nelson kneeled and hesitantly touched the dark blue fabric -the cloth of one of his best dress uniforms by the look of it- before he stood up and pulled his plasma side-arm from its holster, glancing at its power meter -the core about ninety-nine percent fully charged- before he clicked off the safety switch. What had Thibideau said -that the victims of V3 were still thinking beings and able to do what it took to survive? Sentient enough, perhaps, to be able to make a safe haven -a sanctuary- when none seemed to exist?

Nelson grasped the handle of the door and turned it slowly until he heard a tell-tale click and the door inched open, nudged by the toe of his shoe. It was dark within, much darker than it should have been. Even when a cabin was rigged for black, a thin line of floorboard lights against the bulkheads kept the darkest quarters at a deep, bluish twilight, but this was not the case here.

As the more cautious part of Nelson's mind warned him of the dangers of his present course of action, his free hand reached inside the darkened quarters and retreated when all he felt was the shattered and torn remains of the light switch. Immediately, Nelson unlatched the trouble light hooked to his belt and directed its beam at its brightest within the black space.

His quarters were in shambles.

Strange shadows twisted, turned and stretched as Harriman Nelson played the beam of cold, white light along the bulkheads of his cabin, his extended hand trembling ever so slightly.

Every possible source of illumination within the cabin had been destroyed -the desk lamp (only just replaced), the bulkhead-mounted light fixture...everything smashed. Furniture had been up-ended or thrown aside, it seemed, with no apparent thought or, perhaps, effort. Papers had been strewn about on the deck in no apparent order, and his bunk... The sheets had been left in rumpled heaps, discolored in places by drying stains of sanguinous brown. Someone had stayed here...perhaps slept here -and recently, but...who? The shadows revealed no-one and nothing besides a convoluted shadow of himself.

Who had done this?

Nelson reached for and then withdrew his hand from the communicator which hung from his desk by its cord. This unit, too, had been destroyed, its internal wiring hanging from the back of the box like multi-colored tinsel. Whoever had done this -whoever had been here- had obviously wanted neither to be discovered nor disturbed, but again who had it been?

A shudder traveled down the length of Nelson's spine.
The damage to his cabin was terrible, true, but he doubted that he had lost much. He kept few valuables with him onboard, but whoever had done this had to have been in a state of frenzy as Thibideau said such a living victim would be; little more than a maddened beast, possessed by rage and hunger. Could V3 really have done so much? Their guest seemed to think so and this admiral was inclined to agree now more than he had reluctantly before, but there was another question -why?

Why this frenzy...this pointless destruction? Even in madness, there was usually a reason. There was no food here, nothing to prey upon as there had been in the animal lab as he had been told, nothing to attack... Sanctuary... A confused concept of sanctuary was evidenced here -and it was the only reason of which he could think that stayed and ultimately made sense after all. What he had initially seen as mad disarray could also be perceived as evidence of...nesting? If only he knew who it had been that-

Nelson frowned, his face working with confused emotions, his pale eyes widening as they scanned the darkness, himself alerted by...nothing. And yet...something. An impulse. A feeling not unlike the sensation of the tip of a feather being lightly drawn across the skin of his face...as if something had touched him though he could see nothing there.

A...presence.

Nelson's mouth opened with sudden realization -he wasn't alone.

The shadows were many and he hadn't illuminated them all.

He...was...not...alone.

It was as if he could feel it -sense it- an awareness of a presence nearby -a presence that he had not touched, but that had touched him. And somehow so very, very familiar...as irrational as that conclusion had to be even though he knew it to be true. Sweat began to drip down the sides of Nelson's haggard visage as he opened his mouth, ready to speak, but in some ways...afraid.

"I know you're here." The Admiral's voice echoed ever so slightly off the darkened bulkheads, the only sound within the room. "Why don't you show yourself? You were the one that revealed yourself to me." Nelson's chest heaved deeply as the heart beneath his ribcage began to pound a thunderous rhythm within him -even if only to himself, he had to admit that he was indeed afraid. "Lee? It's you, isn't it?" Guided by his hand, the brightening beam of his electronic torch swept across the cabin in a slow, wide arc. "I won't hurt you -you can't be so far gone that you could believe that. Please, Lee...come out and show yourself."

There was a pause, long and silent, and then, a sound like a ragged intake of breath. Immediately, Nelson swung the trouble light in the direction of that sound and as he did, there was movement among the eben recesses. All of a sudden, a dark blur of a figure darted from its hiding place, faster than Nelson could track with the light, and disappeared behind an overturned private storage cabinet.

The Admiral of the Seaview could not resist the gasp of disbelief that escaped his lips for along with that shadowy blur, he had also seen a familiar sparkle of gold that he recognized so well. "So..." Nelson said with a grim satisfaction. "You are there." He trained the bright beam on the shadow-bound area where he had seen the familiar dark figure hide itself, the glare reflecting off the metal of the chest and the dull luster of the paint behind it.

There was a shifting in the shadows and a soft animal-like whimper issued from that small refuge from the glare of Nelson's flashlight; a muffled cry of pain. Nelson lifted the angle of the bright beam slightly. "This hurts you," he said, a twinge of guilt twisting deep within him. "I wish I didn't have to...I'm sorry. If only you could understand that I only want to help you."

"Liar..."

Nelson started so violently that he almost dropped both his plasma gun and the electronic torch to the littered deck at his feet, only barely recovering from the instant of utter disbelief just in time. Despite all he knew and had been told, some part of him had never expected to hear that voice again. It was rough, hoarse, a ragged shadow of that beautiful voice he remembered, but the voice of Lee Crane nonetheless. Oh God...it was his voice!

Nelson swallowed deeply, his tongue seeming to forget its purpose for a moment. "I'm telling the truth, Lee," he said carefully, uncertain whether a single word or simple gesture or even an intonation out of place might trigger an attack -or whether it made any difference at all. He had not forgotten that the Lee Crane this reborn creature was, was not the Lee Crane that he remembered. The man he remembered was one with whom he would trust his life -the one he had realized he would be willing to challenge the rules to be with for a lifetime- but this thing that peered at him from the shadows, rarely blinking, was unpredictable -a killer by its genetic nature- and probably very thirsty. Why he had not attacked yet, Harriman Nelson did not know.

"Lee...do you know me..?" Nelson took a tentative step forward. The shadowy figure did not move. Sweat beaded up on Nelson's furrowed forehead. "I...I know that you're...a little 'confused' right now...but I'm here for you. If you'll let me, I can-" Nelson recoiled as the gesture was met with a harsh, lupine-like growl. "All right...I understand...I'll come no closer." But did his stricken friend understand? That was the question for which the Admiral of the Seaview had no solid answer -or was every word or gesture no more meaningful than a slew of obscenities uttered by a person stricken with Tourette's Syndrome? "Lee...listen to me. If there is any part of you that remembers who you are and can understand...there are notes here that'll help Doc to find a way to make you well again. You have to let me get at them. Do you *understand* me, Lee. It's a chance for all of us!"

The moment fell into a stillness broken only by breaths being drawn as Nelson stole a glance at the weapon in his hand, the barrel pointed down, and then: "Cure..?" The Admiral started at the sound of the stricken commanding officer's voice, so still and long had the moment been. "Made...well?" There was a low, piteous sound which Nelson recognized as deep sobbing. Crying... His friend was crying. "Not...NOT...possible! CAN'T...can't be...helped!"

"Yes, Lee, you can be helped!"


"Can...NOT be...helped..." the anguished man ground out. "Don't...want to...hurt you... Love...you. But need to...kill you.Can't help...it."

A gasp escaped the Admiral's mouth. Love him? Did Lee say that? Could he possibly..? Did Nelson's mind was racing. Whatever the case... Whatever Lee Crane had become -whatever the name one dared attach to it- he was not so far gone that he couldn't hate it. There was still some part of him that could be reached...the same part that suffered in its Earth-bound Hell. That thought steadied Harriman Nelson's hand and made his choice for him. He knew what he had to do.

"I'm going to help you, Lee... I know that you don't fully understand, but I will help you..." Nelson glanced furtively to his side, his eyes catching the guarded actions of his hand as, with the free finger of the hand in which he held the plasma gun, he slowly -carefully- inched the power meter up to its heaviest stun. There was no other choice and no other way of which he knew to bring in his confused friend for whatever help that could be found...if it could be found. "You have to trust me."

Perhaps it was a breath drawn too sharply or perhaps the movements he had considered guarded and careful had appeared to his reborn captain's enhanced senses as labored, clumsy and far too obvious- whatever the case, even as the Admiral of the Seaview brought the charged weapon to bear, there was a loud feral roar and the screech of metal against metal as the overturned cabinet was violently thrust aside and sent skidding along the deck to hit the farmost bulkhead, as the dark blur that was Lee Crane vaulted from his small refuge and into the loosely covered ventilation shaft...and was gone.

It was over in seconds.

Nelson stared at the plasma gun in his hand, fist and weapon trembling visibly. "Damn! Damn! DAMN!!!" Anger reddened his temples and almost made him feel physically ill. He had been so close. So damned close! And he hadn't even gotten off a single shot! Lee had given him so many chances -he knew that now- likely resisting the instincts of the creature he had become, fighting the thirst...the hunger until it had come to the point where his only choice was to attack and feed...or run.

He had run.

Some small spark of the man that Lee Crane still was, had tried so hard...so hard to allow himself to be caught and contained -to be stopped...to not hurt him...but it hadn't been enough -and it was unlikely to happen again. That much Nelson believed...and feared.

Casting an anguished glance at the open, partially obscured ventilation shaft, Nelson unlocked his wall-safe and pulled out the overstuffed file folder for which he had come, the papers within it almost spilling out at the sides. These notes had to hold the answer -they had to.

The Admiral headed back towards Seaview's main medical lab.




"Man, that's a bad one all right."

Chief Sharkey hissed with grim appreciation at the sight of the ugly, bloody gash deep in the flesh of crewman Malone's hand. It had been one of those accidents that really shouldn't have happened; the sort that occurred on some job or routine duty that one had performed a thousand times before without incident, but this one time...

The C.O.B. glared at the guilty piece of metal paneling, only slightly twisted from its normal position, on which seaman Malone had cut himself. There wasn't all that much that could be done about it at the moment really. His orders had been to get the primary Circuitry Room functioning at full capacity before the energies being forced through it overwhelmed both it and the secondary Circuitry Room -period- which he and his work detail had done. Cosmetic damage would have to wait...even cosmetic damage that included that short blade-like bit of metal sticking up there.

Another seaman, Calloway, was struggling to help Malone, using the first-aid skills he possessed, but for each layer of gauze-like bandage that he wound around the ugly gash, warm red would well up and soak through sterile white mesh. A frown crossed the troubled C.P.O's brow -he didn't consider himself a weak-willed man or one given to queasiness at the sight of blood (of such he had seen more than his share in the course of his duties both in the Navy and the ParaNavy), but he had seen far too much of it on this cruise...too much spilled and too much drawn. Would it never end? "Calloway, get Malone to Sick Bay! That's gonna need stitches if anything ever did!" The seaman bobbed his head in agreement and helped his injured comrade to his feet and was heading towards the open door when Sharkey added: "An' keep your weapon close at hand at all times, sailor!'

Calloway frowned with puzzled surprise, and despite his discomfort, Malone also paused and mirrored the look, the former of the two speaking first. "Sir?"

Sharkey sighed wearily -it was Chief not Sir...ah, no matter. Let it go. "Just do it, sailor -okay?" Malone and Calloway nodded uneasily and hesitantly made their way into the corridor, finally disappearing from their deeply concerned chief's view.

Malone and Calloway had been of the same presumptuous bent of mind that he had seen displayed among other members of the crew; possess of the idea that the strong glare that surrounded them, flooding all compartments, had made them immune to the danger that still existed, that nothing could or would reach out from the dark recesses and shafts where no light existed. Francis Sharkey wasn't that trusting of anything...or anyone -a high-tech light bulb guaranteed for a year could blow after being turned on just once; a submarine that had been built to withstand just about anything could meet its match in the form of a bomb that might or might not have been meant to go off when it did; and crewmen whom he would once have sworn could not be forced to do their fellows harm, now had to be regarded as the enemy.

Even though it wasn't their fault.

Sharkey exhaled heavily, grimacing at the too-recent memory of what had occurred in section one of the crew's quarters. After the fear had confusion had passed, he had had to all but tackle Patterson to stop him from going after Kowalski in the almost certainly mistaken belief that he could somehow "get through to him." No-one wanted to believe the worst of those that they loved. It had taken all of his sense of reason not to do the very same thing -and he wasn't even intimate with Kowalski the way that Patterson was ...but he was Kowalski's friend...and it was so very hard to accept that one could not trust certain friends right now...

...the same dangerous attitude that he had seen in Malone and Calloway...and other crewmen...as well as officers. Even the Admiral. Maybe especially him. Behind the familiar mask of ordered self control was an anguished desperation that he only saw in Harriman Nelson's eyes when Lee Crane was in danger...just as it was for Seaview's skipper when his admiral was in peril. Dammit... If they all survived this ill-fated cruise, mere non-commissioned officer though he might have been, some how...some way, he was going to get his Admiral and his Captain to talk. It was way past time...and a chief of the boat always took care of his men, enlisted or officers.

Sharkey glanced at his watch and started, dismayed at the length of time he had spent ruminating and then scowled again, brought back to the present by the sight of the scorched bit of metal on which Malone had injured himself, sticking up there like a blade and stained with darkening red.

The Chief slipped his plasma gun from its sheath and put the weapon on one of its heavier registers before training it on the villainous bit of metal. As his finger depressed the trigger, a thin beam of energy played on the blade-like object, searing it, and then, gradually, melting it as the force of the concentrated plasma jet worried the metal until it was a dull nub and then, a flattened lump of no danger to anyone.

Much better.

Sharkey rescanned his surroundings with a small grunt of satisfaction, eyes taking in the repairs and re-repairs -some, if not most, only temporary- looking for anything that might have been missed. Engineering had been his specialty in the regular Navy, but upon entering service in the ParaNavy -on Seaview- he had become a novice among her men; almost as green as a new recruit in regards to the advanced technology that made this vessel run -so green that he still sometimes wondered why Admiral Nelson and Captain Crane had asked him to serve aboard her, replacing her former chief of the boat.

Whatever their reasons, he had learned quickly, and -admittedly because of Admiral Nelson's personal guidance- he now knew as much as most of the crew and sometimes much more...enough to know that this grey lady was not going to die. No...she was going to get to port even if he had to somehow drag her there himself. All he and this crew needed was that one last miracle...a miracle that would make them all whole...and safe. It would happen. It had to. Sharkey consoled himself with that thought and the belief that Seaview was too stubborn a ship and her crew too stubborn a crew to just roll over and die.

Die?

A sudden chill traveled down the length of Sharkey's spine as he abruptly became aware of his personal situation -he was alone. Really alone. He knew of no other work details in this section of the ship and, if he knew anything else, it was that there was no wisdom in being alone when danger lurked in every shadow...even if that danger came from members of Seaview's own crew.

A deep sigh heaved the Chief's shoulders as he gave the primary Circuitry Room one last look-over, shaking his head ruefully at what could not be repaired until Seaview got to port, and then stepped out of the room and carefully locked the door behind him. Mr. O'Brien would be expecting a progress report and he found himself only too glad to give him one -in person- where there were a lot of people surrounding them.

It was too empty in this corridor and he, too alone. It was too quiet as well. The very sound of the heels of his shoes against the hard deck resounded against the bulkheads with each footfall. Sharkey shadowed the plasma side-arm within its sheath with a brush of his hand, reassuring himself of its presence. He had learned from practical experience that bullets meant next to nothing to Seaview's mutated crewmen -for all he knew, plasma energy might mean just as little -but what else was there? He had to believe that there was some practical use, some protection, in having this hand-held energy cannon strapped to his side. He had to-

There was no warning.

All Sharkey felt was the heavy concussion of something solid against his back as he was bodily thrown to the deck before him, sprawling there, and a nettling sting across the back of his right shoulder. For a second, maybe two, the Chief lay there, gasping, before he rolled over onto his side, grasping for his weapon only to realize that for all the pain that now traveled up and down his right side that there was no sensation -and therefore no mobility- whatsoever in his right arm.

The limb was there -covered in blood which dripped from the deep, ragged wound he could feel within the shoulder- but there was no feeling in the arm itself. None. Panic forcing adrenaline into his veins, the C.O.B. frantically grabbed the weapon with his left hand, rolling onto his knees in one quick motion as he did, and aimed its thick black barrel -at nothing. There was no-one there. He was alone in this intersecting corridor...but he had not imagined the attack. Imagination hadn't taken a sizable chunk of flesh out of his shoulder.

The wall mike... Where was it..? Sharkey blinked rapidly, darkness reaching for him at the edges of his perceptions. He needed...he needed help. Where was... "Sharkey..."

Dizzy, almost falling because of it, Sharkey nonetheless somehow found himself on his feet, the plasma gun extended in his trembling left hand, aimed at a living ghost. The Chief had heard the grim scuttlebutt; that the mutated members of Seaview's crew could move especially fast -and now, he believed it. He had been alone and now, he was pointing his hand-held energy cannon at a solid six-foot being of flesh and blood who stood, half-crouched, not seven meters away. "Mother of God..."

Sharkey had seen his transformed friend before, but that had been in a weak light and he had not realized the changes that Delta's disease had wrought -he could not have. To his eyes, Kowalski's appearance was that of a man several days dead; ghastly pale skin welted by the burning rays of the light in which he stood, staring unmovingly at his chief petty officer with sanguine-colored eyes that leaked saltless red-stained tears, as bloody lips parted in a grotesque grin...and a thin red stream trickled down his chin. "Shar...key," he said, splitting the name into two even syllables as he slowly stepped forward. "Looking...for me?"

"Don't!" Sharkey's finger trembled over the trigger of the weapon in his hand. Blood -good God- Kowalski's gaunt, twisted face was slick with it! His blood! "So help me God, I'll shoot if you come one step closer!"

A low, gurgling laugh issued from the now somehow disproportionately large mouth as the former seaman stopped and stared at the weapon aimed squarely at his chest. "Oh...what're you gonna do...Sharkey? Kill me? You...tried it before...remember? You can't do it." Just for a moment, Kowalski stopped and frowned, seemingly puzzled and then, for a moment longer, apparently profoundly sad. "Can't...be done." The beast within overshadowed the sorrow once again as he started forward again. "You know it... I...know it."

"You can't do this, 'Ski!" Sharkey knew that he was grasping at straws, but he didn't have a choice. "You couldn't hurt Patterson -you know that- because you love him an' you can't do this 'cause we're friends!"

"Pat..." The name seemed to stop the twisted crewman in his tracks, expression falling blank as a confounded brain struggled to grasp at faint wisps of memory. His voice was small, almost child-like. "Sh-Sharkey... I couldn't...I could never -not him. Not you! I don't want to-" But the moment didn't last and Kowalski's pallid countenance twisted with bestial rage once again. "Then again, Shar...key... Wanna bet?"

The Chief of the Boat felt himself take a step backward as the hellish figure continued his approach -very slowly- as if possessed crewman felt that he had all the time in the world to toy with his prey...and he was probably right. Sharkey knew that he was bleeding heavily and how long would it be before he passed from the loss? Minutes? Seconds? The shaking chief petty officer steadied his trembling hand by force of will alone, a free finger pushing the power meter upwards. "'Ski -please! Don't make me do this!

The grisly, solid living dead creature continued forward.




It was worth the try, Admiral."

Harriman Nelson nodded slowly, only half-hearing Thibideau's words of sympathy, as he crushed the initial diagnostic print-out he held between the fingers of his bunching fist.

It hadn't worked.

As the young Canadian corpsman had warned, the serum created to cure one disease had, as it had at Station Delta, failed to cure another disease. Their disease. Project M.I.N.A's deadly brainchild. And he didn't know why. The serum for Vargis Syndrome had allowed this corpsman before him to avoid being infected by that mutating plague -he was certain of it- but the lab rabbits deliberately infected by samples of Mr. Morton's blood, and given the same serum, had not only not been cured -they had died...seconds after the inoculation, convulsing in agony, only to stop. Just...stop.

No progress.

No cure.

Just a new poison -and a potential weapon. That wasn't what they had wanted, but that was what they had gotten. Maybe, Nelson allowed begrudgingly, that was why Thibideau hadn't mentioned the serum before -he knew it was lethal to victims of M.I.N.A.. And yet... "Are you certain that you gave my chief medical officer all the information you had on the treatment?" Nelson pressed insistently. "You didn't miss anything?"

"Yes, sir -I am sure," Thibideau replied more than slightly nettled by the superior officer's continued doubt. He had answered all of their questions and had gone through their probes, their tests -WHEN would they trust him!!! "I do not know what more I can tell you!"

"There may be something." Nelson and Thibideau glanced up sharply, startled by Doc's approach as he emerged from the autopsy bay, his medical smock discolored by grimly familiar red/brown stains. "I just completed the final tests on our subjects' bodies. From what we know -from what the computers tell us- the procedure and the formula are correct. That the chemical make-up of the Lucretia Lilly had to be synthesized did not make any difference."

Nelson frowned. "Then what-"

"If I am right -it was something we had not counted on." Doc paused for a moment to rub at the invisible gravel in his stinging eyes and then inserted a micro-disk into a nearby computer console. The screen flared and two computer-generated images formed. "These are simulations of the atomic structure of the serum for Vargis' Syndrome; one using the actual sap of the Lucretia Lilly, one using the synthetic."
Nelson studied the images, brow creased with concentration, before he straightened up and regarded the physician with a puzzled hunch of his shoulders. "They're identical."

Doc keyed in another command and a third image appeared beside the other two. "This is a simulation of the atomic structure of the serum's trace element as we found it in Lieutenant Thibideau's blood. "Admiral, can you tell me that it is identical to the other two?"

A frown of frustration darkened Nelson's lined countenance as he leaned closer to the monitor and then was forced to stand back a ways as he fished in one of his pockets for the pair of glasses he had remembered to carry. He squinted through the slightly smudged lenses at the simulation, his frown deepening all the more. "My...God..." The admiral extended a finger toward the third image as he viewed it with a scientist's eye, studying the individual strands and circles that represented individual molecules and nuclei whose name ranged from the common and easily remembered to those for which he had to search his brain to recall...until he stopped at one particular strand and glanced sharply at the two preceding simulations to confirm the evidence of his senses. "Almost identical except for this." Nelson tapped the screen for emphasis. "Is this what I think it is -a sub-atomic level 'biologic'?"

Doc nodded tiredly. "Yes. At optimum efficiency, Seaview's equipment has a range beyond most conventional equipment -so, I'm not surprised that the scientists at Delta didn't detect this anomaly, and considering their eventual emotional states..." Doc indicated the image. "This...is a trace element left by Vargis' Syndrome itself. It has bonded to the serum...altering it at a sub-atomic level, rendering the serum non-toxic-"

"-but only to him. The Lieutenant here is the only one who has actually suffered the Syndrome previous to exposure to V3." Nelson stuffed his glasses back into his shirt pocket. The light of inspiration that had been missing from Nelson's eyes, had begun to burn again. the Admiral's expression brightened. "Yes! This could be the key! The serum was poisonous to our test animals because they had never actually suffered Vargis' Syndrome!"

"Perhaps," Doc countered, "but not for certain, Admiral. An inoculation of this solution could prove just as lethal even if we were able to synthesize it."

"If? What d'you mean if?"

"This genetic marker is uniquely biological...a viral chimera. Compromised as we are, we barely have the capacity to create the regular serum let alone make the attempt to synthesize something this uniquely complex before..." The Chief Medical Officer let the comment hang -they all knew what he meant. From counting the hours, they had gone to counting the potential minutes and seconds before the infected men from Seaview's crew realized that they were not as badly hurt by the light as they had probably thought they were...and were thirsty enough to venture out into the glare regardless.

The moment stretched on a little longer before Nelson smiled cryptically. "We are far from out of options, Doc. We have an ample supply of that biological marker right here." He turned to face Thibideau whose visage had gone pale with apprehension and then sudden comprehension. "Don't we, Lieutenant?"

Thibideau stared for a moment longer and then: "Now wait a minute-"

"We could extract the trace element," Doc admitted, his interest quickening. It would mean taking most of our technical staff off their present duties to modify our existing equipment...but the process is not unknown."

"Just a minute-"

"The only question is of how much we would require for optimum effect," Nelson added, "or any effect at all."

"But, sirs-"

Doc nodded enthusiastically. "I can get right on it. We don't have much time."

"Messeurs! S'il vous plait!"

Nelson regarded Thibideau stonily. "You have something to add, Lieutenant?"

For one long moment, there was only silence as the young corpsman looked from superior officer to superior officer, and then slumped with resignation. "Non... No, sir. I have nothing to add."

"Very well then," Nelson said, grimly satisfied. "Let's get on with it."




A thin, warm stream of blood trickled from his nose, trailing over his sweat-beaded upper lip and into his mouth, unnoticed as he stared ahead, his eyes wide and fixed on a goal, a destination he could not see, but knew where it was nonetheless. It was all there was for him; the only thing he had left that kept the confused, ill-fitting pieces of his mind in a weak semblance of order as he focused on his goal and nothing else.

He didn't taste the blood that was leaking into his mouth or smell the same as it oozed thick and dark from wounds that were a gory tattoo all over his body. he didn't really see the few crewmen who happened upon his path or hear their cries of horrified disbelief as they instinctively recoiled at the grisly sight of him and the burden he dragged behind him along the deck; a burden whose weight he did not feel and would not have cared had he been able. Only one crewman -was his name Patterson?- started forward tentatively, eyes wide with a mixture of horror and anguish. "Oh no...no..." But a slow shake of the gore-stained brow was enough to warn Patterson off despite his open desire to help.

Blood-shot eyes narrowed at the sight of the aggrieved crewman and then turned away, himself once again drawn on by the lure of instinct. Every facet of his confused being was centered on the goal that barely stopped him from sinking into the mire of confusion that waited for him.

Every thought was focused on getting to where he somehow knew he had to go and to people whose presence and location he sensed though he did not know why.

All in all, it was a wise thing that no-one had tried to force his hand, or actually interfere and impede his progress. He was not certain what he would have done, but he knew that he would not have stopped...

...for anyone.




"I should like to ask you a question, Lieutenant."

Nelson studied the young corpsman for a moment. In the sterile light of this medical lab, the man's fair skin had blanched to a ghastly pale hue that had little to do with the procedure under which he had just gone; the procedure which had extracted the unique element in his blood. It wasn't the procedure...no, it was fear. He was now as vulnerable to infection as any member of the crew onboard Seaview. The Admiral was not a cold man or without pity, but it had been the only way...and perhaps, a cure for all of them.

Nelson drew a seat over to where Thibideau sat, waiting as was he, for the new batch of serum to complete its synthesizing process. Finally, the superior officer spoke. "You are a very cagey man, Lieutenant -a very careful man." Thibideau regarded the Admiral, uneasy and questioning, but silent. "If you think that I believe that you have told me everything, you are mistaken -however, your reasons are your own and for the present, I do not care to know them...save for one." The questioning look deepened. "You had my chief medical officer fooled and you might have continued to do so...thus, I want to know the reason you finally revealed yourself -why you broke your silence."

"As I recall," Thibideau muttered, "you had a gun pointed at my face."

"The real reason."

Thibideau sighed deeply -the personality files on Nelson were accurate; the man was perceptive and persistent. "Do you believe in the supernatural, Admiral...in ghosts and hauntings?"

Nelson winced, thoughts turning towards recollections of such events occurring on this giant submarine several times over -of the persistent spirit of an ancient ancestor, of a ghost ship and crew that had wanted the Seaview to take their place in purgatory, of a spectral pirate who had wanted to continue his days of plunder...and of Krueger. Krueger...he had almost his beloved Lee to that thrice-damned entity of the deep. The Admiral shuddered, thoughts returning to the present, hoping that his lapse had gone unnoticed. "I...have had some experience with them."

"So have I -my captain..." Thibideau looked up and Nelson was startled to see the welling of moisture in them. "My captain was my friend...and much more. I loved him and he loved me, but I think he loved honor more. If it was in my power to remain faithful to my vows to the Service, he expected me to do so no less because we were...close. My lapse was a betrayal of those vows." There was a pause. "I don't expect you to believe me, but since he died, he has visited me every night, and sometimes in the day, with the promise that until I do what I can to set things right, he will haunt me...not as a comfort, but a punishment." A weak smile touched the corpsman's lips. "He was...he is a persistent man."

A faint ghost of memory passed before Nelson's mind's eye -the whisper of a nightmare and perhaps a visitation that he had forgotten. Too real. Despite himself, he believed the young officer. "I can imagine."

"Admiral?" The moment of peace was over, sundered by the arrival of Seaview's chief medical officer. Nelson rose from his seat -Thibideau did the same- both regarding the physician cautiously...questioningly. In his latex-sheathed hands, Doc held a small medical containment receptacle with as much care as one handling something indescribably precious. He was. Doc turned the container around slightly so that its see-through window revealed its contents -a baby finger-thin seal vial of some translucent, pinkish fluid. "A sample from the new batch," said quietly and then added: "Cell culture tests are promising though not conclusive. If this works, we will have enough for the whole crew and then some. If not..." He grimaced. "If not, we will not have enough of the raw materials left to synthesize cough syrup...or the time."

Nelson tilted his head in acknowledgment. If this serum didn't work, there would little or no time or means to seek another. "Well...let's try it then."

"There is a small problem with that, Admiral."

At Doc's words, Nelson felt an almost physical jab of dread deep within his stomach. "What problem?"

"Sir..." Doc said, unease etched into his face, "we have no more lab subjects on which to test the new serum. The two we used were the last ones."

"Why wasn't I informed of this!!!"

"You were, Admiral," Doc countered very carefully. "Not an hour ago."

The retort formed in Nelson's brain, but never passed beyond his lips...was never spoken aloud as he scanned the records of memory within his brain and he was suddenly forced to remember, however vaguely, that Doc had indeed informed him of few test animals remained after one of Seaview's stricken crew members had drained and mutilated the rest. He had forgotten as certainly as if he had not been told at all. It was at that moment that the Admiral of the Seaview recalled one disturbing fact -something that Lieutenant Thibideau had told them not very long ago...that not all of those who went mad on Voyageur and Delta did so because they had been infected. Was it truly possible that the mutated members of his crew were capable of transmitting their emotional states, their confusion to the uninfected? There had been reports of night terrors, temper flare-ups, and general unease...and now his own sudden forgetfulness?

Nelson suppressed a shudder. "Then we have no other choice, Doc." The Chief Medical Officer nodded -he understood.

It was then that the grim gathering gave a collective start and stared around themselves as they caught at the very edges of their senses, a sound -very low and indistinct, the shuffling of bodies against hollow metal, lumbering and crawling...and it was all around them. Nelson forced himself to look away from the ceiling and from what laid beyond sight. "We don't have much time."




Dark red eyes stared through the metal netting of a nearby ventilation grate, fevered brain absorbing enough of what he had heard and seen to understand. Lee Crane drew sharpened nails down the metal plating of his hiding place, leaving deep gouges in the steel panels. Yes...little time.




The doors to the high-security area of the Sick Bay were pushed open and Admiral Nelson, Doc, and a medical retinue entered, waiting only for their eyes to adjust to the weak light. At Nelson's side, Seaview's chief medical officer carried a capped hypodermic loaded with a dose of what was hopefully cure for the M.I.N.A. virus; the solution laced with a mixture of pain killers that would have proven deadly under normal circumstances -and might yet be. Nelson hesitated and then pushed himself forward -the cure...might be a killer and the only way to find out was to use a guinea pig...a human one. This was the final stage in the testing of any treatment...the one no ethical scientist or doctor enjoyed, but could not, ultimately, avoid.

Nelson squinted; it was darker in this area than it had been since he had visited it last and he was filled with dismay at what that meant to the one for whom they had come.

Chip Morton had been in a drugged unconsciousness when he had last looked in on him, but he was not now. Bound to his bed, the Executive Officer was wide awake, his eyes locking on the Admiral and then Doc as they approached. He glanced quickly at the corpsmen who remained in the background as they had been ordered, his body tensed and straining against his bonds to the point that the reinforced straps were beginning to cut into the pale flesh of his arms and legs, welts of purple and red appearing where the harsh material bit into the skin...and yet, he didn't seem to notice or care as his harsh stare alternately focused on his visitors. Morton's lips pulled back to reveal the partially recessed fangs piercing the thin sheath of flesh and skin, a low warning growl building deep within his throat.

Nelson paused in his tracks for a moment, resolve and hope wavering at the sight of his executive officer. In this weak light, Morton appeared far less human than he had only hours before...perhaps too far gone to be helped? Normally lethal doses of more common tranquilizers had lost their effectiveness on the stricken patient not long ago -how long would it be before the XO threw off the remaining effects of what he had already been given and became strong enough to free himself from the steel-fiber restraints? No-one knew for certain, but it wouldn't be long and the Admiral of the Seaview knew that his choices were few. He had made promises -to this man...to Lee- and he intended to keep them.

Doc handed over the hypodermic reluctantly, not entirely convinced by his admiral's argument that the vow he had made to Chip superseded Doc's oaths as a physician...but the Admiral could be a very convincing individual. Nelson cautiously approached the medical bunk. "Chip..."

There was no recognition in the Executive Officer's staring eyes at the sound of his admiral's voice; no hint of anything that could tell anyone that he saw his superior officers as anything more than potential prey -a source of the blood he needed to cool the raging hunger that burned behind his unblinking carmine eyes. "Chip...I made you a promise -d'you remember that?" Morton continued to stare with that unnerving silence, but there was a change -a small one- as the heaving of his chest slowed ever so slightly and the expression in his eyes no longer appeared quite as empty or mindless...or was he deluding himself? Nelson wished that he knew. Was it easier to believe that his stricken XO understood what he was about to do and gave his ascent regardless of the fact that he had no longer had any say in the matter? Possibly. "Chip... We've found what might be a cure for V3 -but I won't lie to you. It could be dangerous. Deadly dangerous. I felt you should know that."

Nelson sighed aloud as a tense silence was his only reply. What had he wanted? To be released of the guilt that would ensue if this trial proved as deadly for the Executive Officer as it had been for the creatures before him? Not just possibly. Definitely. The Admiral cast despairing glance at Doc who shook his head slightly in the same weary frustration. It was now or never. Permission or no, there was no choice in this-

Just then, Nelson was forced to cry out in surprise and pain as there was a sharp ripping sound and a crushing vise of flesh and blood clamped around his wrist. Almost the instant he had looked away from the restrained patient, Morton had literally snapped one of the reinforced straps that had bound his arms and had clamped a hand around Nelson's now reddening wrist. Immediately, a security detail whom Doc had summoned -he hadn't summoned them- moved forward, their plasma rifles drawn and fully charged, ready to- "NO!" Nelson's voice snapped out, sharp and loud. "Stand down -NOW!" The harshly barked order was met with mute confusion and then begrudging obedience as the puzzled security detail drew back, each man with a finger positioned precariously close to the trigger of his weapon. The Admiral steeled himself against the pain traveling up and down his imprisoned arm and wrist, and turned to face his stricken executive officer. "Chip..?"

Chip Morton glared at the wrist clenched in his fist, then at the hypodermic in his admiral's free hand, and finally at Nelson's pained visage in quick succession, confusion and frustration on his drawn, pallid face as he struggled over thoughts that did not seem to want to cohere and words that would not come -at least, not easily. He glanced at the loaded hypodermic again. "It...it will...cure me..?"

Nelson nodded solemnly. "Or it will cure you. Yes."

The moment seemed to stretch into an eternity -no sound, no movement- and then Morton sank back against his sweat-sodden pillow. When he spoke again, his voice was calm and almost clear. "Then...get it over with...please..."

Nelson gestured with a slight tilt of his head and Doc moved in with restraints of the type meant to protect a patient from hurting himself rather than those around him; not the least of which was a mouthpiece designed to prevent a patient from biting his tongue while in the throes of convulsions. Doc finished his work, hands trembling slightly despite himself, and then studied the monitors which were receiving Morton's vital signs from the remote sensor pads pasted on his brow and body before he nodded grimly to the Admiral and extended his hand for the needle.

Nelson shook his head slightly. If this experiment proved fatal -if Chip was to die because of it- it would be at his hands and it would be quick. He had promised it.

There was a tense, almost overwhelming silence as the needle pierced the XO's pallid skin, a tiny bubble of blood that was too pale for normalcy welling up to the surface before the contents of the hypo were emptied into his veins. During this, Morton's drawn countenance had become an expressionless mask; only the slightest flicker moving his eyelids as the needle was inserted and then again when it was removed. He made not a sound or even a muffled cry as if what remained of his tortured mind was now elsewhere; beyond the reach of what was happening to his body. Nelson stepped back, regarding the seemingly insensate officer anxiously, and turned to Doc who stood leaning over one of the monitors, his face bathed in the pale glow from its screen. "Anything?"

The Chief Medical Officer shook his head slowly as he silently studied the readings on the monitor, his lips drawn tight. He remembered what Thibideau had told them and what he had learned of the effects of the sap of the Lucretia Lilly on the human body, but the Executive Officer's vital signs were no different than they had been minutes -hours- ago.

"Heart rate unchanged.. .blood pressure constant.. .metabolic rate as skewed as it has been since Chip was infected -but not different... It-" Doc stopped mid-sentence, his expression suddenly uncertain and then, deeply concerned. "Check that. Heart rate increasing." Both officers immediately looked at the patient who had begun to stir, grimacing with eyes closed, as if caught in the midst of a bad dream. Doc returned his attention to the pulsing screen. "Blood pressure higher -it's now 150 over 90 and rising. Body temperature 104 Fahrenheit and rising also. I don't like this.. ."

Doc glared darkly at the medical instrumentation as if he could not believe what the monitoring units were telling him; a curse on his lips as he dashed over to his patient's side, pushing past his superior officer and whipped out his stethoscope, pressing the sounding device against the Executive Officer's chest which now heaved deeply with rapid, ragged breaths. "Much too fast... much too fast... Heart rate is much too high for my liking." Doc glared sharply at the medical instrumentation, his brow furrowing all the more deeply at what they were telling him now. "Admiral, this is dangerous! Chip's vital signs are reaching the danger level -if they go any higher, he could stroke!"

"I know, Doc...I know." Nelson stared at the screen in anxious silence. He was not a physician, but he knew enough about the human body and medicine in general to know that what the Chief Medical Officer said was true. He saw it in the read-out on the monitors which were recording the Executive Officer's every biological process and he saw it in each gasping breath that Chip struggled to draw. He also saw it in the livid red that now flushed Chip's once sallow skin, the sweat that dripped from his body onto the crumpled cloth, and in the way that his wasted form strained against the reinforced straps that bound him to the medical bunk. But there was no going back. He knew it -and in some way, his executive officer had known it, confounded by that damning virus though he was. There was no cure for the serum itself...and there were only two possible results of its use: life or-

All at once, Nelson's grim contemplative state was sundered as the warning indicator on the monitor sounded, loud and shrill, and at that same moment, the suffering X0 strained against his bonds in one mighty convulsion, snapping each strap as though it was made of paper and tin foil, the violent motion forcing him upwards, his back arching with his muffled cry of agony, before he collapsed back against the sodden sheets.. .silent and unmoving. Doc moved forward, his face pale with anguish. "No... Jesus, no..." Despite himself and his training, his fingers trembled as he pressed the stethoscope against Morton's still chest as he stared at the monitor screen which now registered no heartbeat at all. "Dammit, this can't-"

Doc's mouth fell open -and the mouths of those within the room did the same- as their horrified silence was broken by a single electronic beep...and then another as the monitor registered one heartbeat and then another, and then others; weak at first, and then strong and steady...and then, the sound of breath being drawn as Morton's chest began to heave visibly as air was drawn into his lungs. "This isn't possible. I don't know how..."

"But the serum-" Nelson prompted, not certain whether he dared to hope. "Is it-"

Doc took an auto-lance from a nearby tray and pricked the unconscious executive officer's left forefinger, drawing a tiny sample of blood which he placed on a slide that he put before the lens of his electronic microscope, its capacity boosted by his own efforts, the laser-guided mechanisms focusing as he peered through the binocular eyepiece. A moment passed...and then two...before the physician looked up, his face pale, but this time...with wonderstruck awe. "I don't know how...but the serum is attacking the V3 virus; eating it like it's candy. There's.. .there's even some evidence of an initial healing process here. My God, Admiral -it works! The serum works!"

It was as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Though Nelson could not say that the burden of worry had been completely lifted, it felt, at least, a little lighter. His own hands not as steady as they should have been, he reached over the X0 and gently removed the restrictive mouthpiece just as the young commander stirred, his eyes blinking rapidly against the sting of the light that troubled his still photo-sensitive eyes though not quite as much as he stared blankly at the fixture above him for several long seconds before he looked away, visually examining his surroundings with the mounting fascination of a very small child. Just then, he turned his head and stared at the Admiral for a long moment, a weak and bewildered smile forming on his sallow face. "...Admiral..."

Nelson allowed himself a shaky smile. "You did it, Chip. The serum works -you're going to be all right. How...how do you feel?"

Morton swallowed deeply, his eyes glassy with exhaustion. His eyes... Nelson was taken aback -the executive officer's eyes were blue once again; as blue and bright as he had ever known them to be. "I..." Morton paused, eyes closing for a moment longer. "I feel... as if I have the worst cold on this planet...mouth has this weird taste in it...metallic ...thirsty too."

Nelson glanced at Doc and then regarded Morton uneasily. "I...think we can do something about that. What do you want to drink?"

A feeble laugh escaped Chip Morton's cracked lips before he met his admiral's eyes again, his expression completely serious. "Orange juice...extra pulp."

"Whatever you say, Chip," Nelson said with a sigh of profound relief. "Just as soon as the corpsmen here check you out, all right?" Morton nodded dumbly as the lids of his eyes became too heavy to hold open and he drifted off to sleep.

As the medical detail wheeled the medical bed into an adjoining examination room, Nelson drew up to Doc's side, his expression suddenly especially serious. "So now we know the serum works -on victims in Chip's stage of infection and transformation- but as far as we know, he did riot actually ingest any blood. Will it work on the others?" A vague image of the tortured creature he had encountered in his quarters passed through his mind and he shuddered. "Will it work on the ones for whom the change is more complete?"

Doc stared the sterile container cradled within his latex-covered hands, the pinkish translucent serum that was their "miracle" cure glistening fluidly as it was caught by the light which penetrated the see-through window of the small vessel. He knew what his admiral was asking -as much as he cared about the wellbeing any crewman, he was asking about Lee Crane most of all. "It should," he said finally...but the note of incertitude in his voice was something he could not mask or deny had been heard as the Admiral reacted with dull surprise -he had suspected the doubt. "But I don't know for sure. There's no way we can know until we actually use it on such a victim."

Just then, there was the sound of human voices raised in dismay. Both officers looked up sharply -security guards were holding a distraught Patterson away from the doorway, for his own good apparently, as well as their own. A barely recognizable figure entered, dragging a bloody burden. "Sounds...like youse guys need...a volunteer."

Nelson and Doc both gasped aloud, frozen for a seemingly endless instant by the grisly horror of what they saw. Nelson spoke first, his jaw and mouth slack, his voice a weak whisper. "Jesus...Christ..." He had seen visions of horror many times before, but this was something new. Francis Sharkey, their chief petty officer, was no monster, but what he -what they saw- was in many ways monstrous.

Sharkey was almost covered in blood -his own, someone else's- from head to toe, his uniform shirt all but hanging from his battered frame in tattered shreds only barely hiding, if at all, the bruises and claw marks beneath, his hair matted with the same drying sanguine fluid, his eyes wild and staring, within the hand of one arm that seemed to hang uselessly from one shoulder -a plasma gun...and clenched within the other fist...

Sharkey cracked a disturbingly vague grin with lips that were all but swollen shut on one side at his audience who stood in stunned silence and motionlessness and then glanced back at the burden which he dragged by the collar with his sensate arm and hand, the cloth clenched between the fingers of his scraped, bruised fist...the battered, unconscious form of crewman Kowalski. Sharkey chuckled a little wildly. "Got 'im for you..."At that moment, the C.P.O's face lost all expression, his eyes rolling back in his head as his knees buckled and he crumpled to the hard surface beneath his unsteady feet, a stringless marionette.

The moment of paralyzing disbelief ended abruptly as Nelson dashed forward, only barely catching the stricken chief petty officer before he hit the cold, hard tiles of the medical area's deck, his hands and uniform staining with the still-wet gore that covered the man, but it didn't matter...it did not matter. Even as the Admiral had made a move, Doc had begun to bellow for assistance, pressing the security detail that remained in stunned incredulity to give him a hand with the other of the two new patients -with Kowalski- despite their instinctive fear and reluctance as he bellowed again; this time, for any corpsman whose hands were not bound by emergency and duty already.

Nelson plucked the plasma gun that had been tucked into the waistband of Sharkey's uniform trousers, his eyes widening as he realized that the power meter had been set on full, disruptive force -because of panic perhaps- and that the energy core indicator showed that the weapon's power cell had been drained by almost 75%. Seventy-five... Nelson's train of vision went to where the insensate Kowalski was being bound to a medical bed. Was it...how could it have been possible that it had taken so much raw power to subdue the man -by the rise and fall of his chest, he could tell that Kowalski was not dead- and by Sharkey's condition, he could also tell that the first blast had not been the one to bring the crewman down. My God...the possibility was more than a possibility then. These plasma guns -these medium-range hand-held energy cannons which had proven equal to almost any task of the past- were likely no longer enough. The only more potent energy weapon on board Seaview wasn't even a weapon -they were energy welding torches meant to be used on the outside of the submersible's hull...and there were only twelve of those.

"Sir..."

Nelson moved aside reluctantly as a corpsman, swathed it seemed, in anti-contamination latex signaled to another member of his medical detail and lifted the unconscious C.P.O. and gingerly placed him on a gurney. Sweat beaded on Nelson's upper lip, his brow knitting, as corpsman Taylor took a sample of Sharkey's blood and placed a drop into a vial containing a sample of the reagent...no-one was surprised when the fluid turned an insidious and grimly familiar black. Taylor turned to Nelson, his expression almost apologetic. "Infection confirmed."

Nelson tilted his head, his eyes downcast -there had never been any doubt. What he had seen in Chip, he had begun to see in the Chief's eyes...a bestial shadow...the first hint of a genetically-engineered madness...and despite the hope that there now was for the Chief and the others suffering only the initial stages of the disease, he could feel little more than a gnawing apprehension. Nelson grasped Sharkey by his uninjured shoulder, already feeling the beginnings of tell-tale fever. "Don't worry, Francis... Doc'll have you up and around sooner than you know."

But what about the others? Nelson locked away as Sharkey was wheeled away into an adjoining treatment room, his thoughts troubled. By his estimation, the number of the newly infected was probably no more than he could count on both hands -if that- and the rest in some later stage. If the serum could not cure both those in whom the virus had radicalized as well as those in whom the disease was still in an earlier or less advanced stage, he feared that it would ultimately be of no worth at all. If history had taught him anything, it was that without a true cure, a plague could and often would spread beyond all means to contain it. Nelson caught Doc's silent gesture and approached his side.

A small gasp escaped Nelson's lips unbidden. In Chip Morton, he thought he had seen all there was to see as far as the virus' external physical changes were concerned -he was wrong. So very wrong. Nelson steeled himself and drew nearer to the medical bunk, his horrified gaze never leaving the stricken crewman who had been bound with the kind of restraints used in the past only on the strongest and strangest of nature's seaborne creatures. Doc wasn't taking any chances and his decision was probably a wise one. Morton, though only on the verge of complete transformation, had been incredibly, impossibly strong. Kowalski, so much further along, was undoubtedly stronger, and if -God forbid- he should wake up too soon...

Nelson glanced at Doc who was filling another hypodermic with their experimental serum; a dose they could only estimate; an educated guess at best...and then returned his attention to the insensate Kowalski. Further along -that was stating it in the mildest terms. Until now, he had not gotten a look, a good look, at one of Project M.I.N.A's completely transformed creatures, but now, especially in the slightly increased light, he saw almost more than he wished to see -this was the human-like beast of legend...a drinker of blood...a vampire.

Morton's skin had been sallow, the paler of illness, but Kowalski's flesh had blanched to the waxen grey/white hue of a corpse that had been bled dry before burial despite the fact that it burned hot with fever and that the man himself was still alive though his chest barely rose and fell with his nearly imperceptible breaths. The seaman barely locked human or alive anymore, his weirdly dry, waxen skin drawn too tightly over bones that had come to appear too pronounced and muscles that had grown wasted and lean. And yet the strength that that wasted form belied...

Doc leaned over his patient, gesturing with his eyes as he gently pulled back Kowalski's upper lip to reveal the retractable, somehow longer fangs that remained partially extended even in this death-like sleep, before he inserted the gag-like protective mouthpiece, secured it, and reached for the hypo he had placed on a medical tray. Kowalski moaned slightly as he began to stir, straining a little against the restraints, his eyes partially open, revealing further evidence of the virus mutating powers -scarlet eyes were now covered by a sanguine-colored translucent membrane like an inner eyelid, leaving the eyeballs themselves to appear as slits of venomous red.

It was strange how the sight of those unhuman eyes reminded Nelson of the notion which had occurred to him only recently -that his former assumption about Captain Hudson had been wrong. There was no way that the man Lee had described could have been suffering the V3 stage of Project M.I.N.A's creation when he had attacked Seaview's shore party -V2 compounded by madness and hunger perhaps, but not V3. From what he had learned, in no way could the Captain of the Voyageur have been as transformed as this.

At that moment, Doc nodded to Nelson in silence and Nelson returned the grim, wordless gesture in the same way as the physician again checked the dosage in the loaded hypo and then turned towards Kowalski whose eyes had suddenly opened, wide and sharp, daring him, it seemed, even as Doc pierced the ghastly pale skin with the sliver-thin silver needle and the insidious fluid flowed into Kowalski's veins.

This time, the response was immediate.

Never in his life had the Admiral of the Seaview heard a scream like that. Despite the mouthpiece, despite the fact that it should have muffled any sound a man might voice into a vague whimper, Kowalski's scream all but rang, loud and inhuman, off the very bulkheads of the room as his back arched, his body straining hard against the metal shackles, sanguine-colored tears literally streaming down the sides of his contorted face from eyes that appeared as slits of blood. It was then that Nelson felt himself do something that he thought he could never be pressed to do. He turned his face away from the sight -he could not watch this again...he could not...but he could not silence the sounds and all of a sudden, he was angry -at himself...at his moment of weakness...and forced himself to bear witness to what was his duty to witness. Just for a second...a mere second...he had forgotten himself, but even as he turned, the screams stopped.

The Chief Medical Officer was bending over the limp, unconscious and somehow alive crewman, his brow lined and damp as he extracted from the seaman a single drop of blood. The Admiral stared, scarcely daring to breathe as Doc checked the sample under the electronic microscope. Nelson brushed sweat-slickened hands against the already stained fabric of his uniform trousers...waiting. "Admiral..." The physician's haggard countenance creased with a tentative smile. "It's working! He...Kowalski's going to be all right!"

Now...he could breathe. Nelson exhaled deeply, the awful weight on his shoulders just a little lighter as he lifted the secure container to his tiredness-reddened eyes. How to get this serum to those that needed it -that was the question now...but a small question in the greater scheme of things. The greater part of the puzzle had been solved.

They had their cure.


10



"Sir, this is highly irregular. As a flag officer-"

"As a flag officer -what?"

Lieutenant O'Brien regarded his admiral uneasily, his smooth brow furrowing as he realized that he had somehow ended up in a situation anyone of a lesser rank dreaded: he had to figure out how to express concern over a superior officer's chosen course of action without appearing to question his orders or his judgment -such was the nature of military protocol. It was never easy and the situation had confounded better men than he. However... "Sir... it's my duty to point out when a mission presents a clear and present danger to my superior officer." There. It had been said and the young officer awaited the proverbial leaden hammer to fall...but...

A small smile animated the Admiral's ruddy visage instead. "And might I remind you that it is my duty to carry out a mission regardless of the danger." Nelson studied the young lieutenant who stood there, brow creased all the more with concentration, his expression an open window to the silent workings of his brain as he struggled to fashion a dutifully respectful rejoinder to his admiral's reply and, for now, seemed unable to make one. The Admiral's deadpanned response was a military truth, none could debate, but it was only a partial one -a serviceman pledged his life to carry out his duty, but there had to be some point to it, some chance of success...of which O'Brien was obviously profoundly uncertain. "Your concerns are duly noted, Lieutenant. Carry on." A tiny grin played at the corners of Nelson's mouth as Lieutenant O'Brien replied with a soft sigh of resignation and a vaguely forced "Aye, sir" before turning and heading back to the Control Room.

Nelson watched him go. He wasn't angry -no, this admiral knew that even under such dire circumstances as the present ones, duty had its place even though one could easily be tempted to ignore it...and Lieutenant O'Brien was correct. An admiral was not generally expected to do more than issue the orders directing the actions of a detail on extra-hazardous duty, but Harriman Nelson had always been one for whom duty behind a desk became ill-fitting after only a short time. He had always considered himself a man of action...and he had promises to which only he was privy to keep.

Extra-hazardous duty... There was no doubt in Harriman Nelson's mind that this mission would prove exactly that. The crew of the Seaview had been reduced -by death, injury, and illness- by about half and the greater part of that casualty list was the focus and reason for this extra-hazardous assignment. Before the victims of Delta's vampiric plague could be cured, they had to be caught and if they could not be caught... Nelson frowned as he adjusted headset of his portable communications' unit, resisting the completion of the thought. No... There was no place for doubt now. Doubt only led to failure and they could not afford that.

The Admiral of the Seaview was far from alone in that opinion and was just as far from alone in this room. The Missile Room was playing host to a larger than usual assembly. Thirty-four members of Seaview's remaining healthy crew -some officers, some enlisted, volunteers greater in number than those who had been assigned- were preparing themselves for a detail that was as unique in its purpose as in its scope -to find their stricken fellow crewmen...and cure them before Delta's mutating plague went beyond all means to stop it -and there was less time than he might have imagined. That he knew. Three more names had been added to those on the list of the missing and he had no idea if they were dead or alive. Yes... There was very little time.

A silent prayer escaped Nelson's lips; a private and wordless plea from the core of Nelson's being to the higher power he sometimes failed to remember, but never entirely forgot -he hoped it was enough to ensure that the hastily fashioned preparations made with trembling hands directed by ragged nerves would allow himself and his crew to capture their dangerously confused comrades. Nelson's gaze rested on the portable weapons' brackets just to his side -the high-tech rifles mounted there were the work of desperation: hastily altered medium-range plasma rifles with modified power cells that would in theory produce twice the energy and force of the originals. If the guns didn't melt down in their users' hands, explode, or blast a hole through the ship's inner hull Nelson thought wryly, but that awesome power was to be employed only if necessary and as a last line of defense. The mechanical unit mounted over each thick, black, metal muzzle was the first -a dart gun.

Nelson stared at the weapons as he adjusted the form-fitting blast-proof vest he wore, his grim countenance pulled into a scowl. He supposed that he had always known, on some intellectual level, that it would come to this if a cure was found. Doctor Ionescu had named his vampiric artificially-engineered disease well -everything about it revolved around blood. The virus was carried in the blood, changing the blood, transferring mostly through the blood, gradually altering its victims gradually and then faster and more horrifically within and without so that their digestive systems could absorb all the nutrients that their changed and changing bodies needed through the ingestion of blood, making them thirst for it...hunger for it...kill for it. In theory, the perfect destroyers; killers that consumed their victims without pity or mercy. In truth, monsters that made more monsters -through the blood...and it was through that same life-giving stuff that the disease would be attacked and destroyed.

The dart gun mounted on the plasma rifle appeared in position and form much like a common gun-sight -a narrow tube-like thing that could be fired by a secondary trigger and contained eight serum-loaded darts to be fired one at a time; a serum mixture so thickly laced with an even more modified narcotic brew that the medical corps swore it would render the victim too deeply unconscious to feel the pain that was the natural side-effect of the insidious elixir...or so they hoped. There was no real way to tell.

Portable communications' units like a light-weight version of the headset any sonar operator used would be worn by each search party member, linking them in a way similar to the way that Seaview's mutated crew members were said to be linked. Nelson adjusted his own headset again so that the needle-thin mouthpiece became positioned just before his lips, grimacing at the earpiece which continued to pinch the tender flesh of his ear lobe. These preparations had to be enough.

"Sir?"

"Malone," Nelson replied, regarding the young seaman who stood before him, his cheeks flushed, his eyes as round as saucers. No doubt he had run here from the munitions' stores; a private venture on his admiral's behest for things better not discussed over the public address system. Malone stood at almost comical attention and winced sharply as he gave the traditional salute, failing to be careful of his heavily bandaged hand as he hit the side of his head. A brief unbidden grin passed over Nelson's lips. "What news?"

Malone shook his head wearily. "It's a no go, sir. Gunner's mate Bessel and I went over the munitions' stores from top to bottom -we don't have the materials to create even one plasma-burst bomb."

"I see." Nelson exhaled heavily, glowering inwardly at the fact that he had even considered the use of such a weapon and the equally real fact that such a destructive force, regardless of how inherently unpredictable and unstable, would have provided an alternate solution if the search details failed in their appointed task. No matter. The point was now moot. "And the light units...the white-sound generators?"

Seaman Malone's young face brightened slightly. "We had a little better luck in that area, sir. We found 15 white-sound generators still in good order and eight magnesium-flare level light generators -Bessel and Calloway are bringing them in now. The rest...the rest were wrecked inside by the crash and the energy pulse."

Twenty-three sound and light units to drive hypersensitive plague victims out of their refuge within the dark recesses of this ship -hardly enough, but it would have to do. As their intensely acute senses had imprisoned them in the artificial deep, so would they serve as a means to drive his mutated crew out to where they could be cured -or attack and kill- Nelson reminded himself with an uneasy shudder. He hadn't forgotten that possibility. "All right, Malone. Take up your watch in the Control Room."

Malone regarded his clumsy heavily bandaged hand with a frustrated scowl and then nodded in resignation. "Aye aye, sir," he said turning and then...hesitating: "Sir?"

"Malone?"

"Good luck, sir."

Nelson himself hesitated for a moment before he answered: "Thank you, Malone -we'll need all we can get." The seaman nodded wordlessly and then disappeared through the hatchway, his admiral watching him go. So much doubt in the young crewman's voice ...so much doubt in the minds and hearts of his crew...perhaps he would have to do the hoping for them.

"On my ship, we would have added 'Bon chance'."

Nelson was not entirely surprised to hear corpsman Thibideau' s voice as he turned and saw the young medical officer approaching him. Like the other members of Seaview's medical corps who were serving on this detail, making last checks on the serum-loaded dart guns, corpsman Thibideau had donned a regular-issue white medical lab coat, covering the slightly ill-fitting borrowed uniform beneath. Were it not for the clusters issued by the Canadian Navy that he had affixed to the shirt collar, he could have been easily mistaken for a regular member of Seaview' s crew. Nelson completed the visual once-over with the slightest lift of his left eyebrow. "So... I see that Doc has chosen to keep you busy, Lieutenant."

"Yes, sir," Thibideau responded with a nearly apologetic half-smile. "I imagine you don't care for me wearing Seaview 's uniform, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. I am a sailor, sir -I earned the clusters...and I am a doctor. As I understand it... you'll soon need every medical hand you have on board." Nelson tilted his head in acknowledgment -the young corpsman, impudent as he tended to be, was nonetheless quite right. One way or another, he did not doubt that Sick Bay would soon be filled to overflowing with the sick...and the injured. Doc and corpsmen from the greenest trainees to physicians in their own right would have their hands full and Nelson found himself grateful for the use of another set of medically trained hands. Thibideau fished a slightly creased paper out of one of the over-sized pockets of his lab coat. "Oh... and Doc thought you might want to see the latest test results on Commander Morton, Chief Sharkey, and seaman Kowalski." He proffered the sheet and the Admiral accepted it, his eyes scanning the print as his grim expression softened just a shade. "The effects of the virus are reversing. They are going to be all right."

A weary, wistful sigh escaped the Admiral's slightly upturned lips. "Perhaps I was wrong indeed to have ever thought that Seaview had used up her share of miracles."

"Sir?"

"Never mind, Lieutenant," Nelson said not ungently. "Just some personal musings on my part. Carry on."

Thibideau cracked a tentative grin. "Aye, sir."

"Ah, Lieutenant-" Thibideau stopped in his tracks, medical clipboard under his arm, at the Admiral's abrupt utterance, his face clouded with puzzlement as Nelson approached him, his brow knitted over the notion which had chosen that moment to strike him. "Lieutenant -your captain- have you... 'seen' him lately?"

"No..." Thibideau replied in a near whisper, his expression both sad and relieved. "He is with me always," he said, placing a hand against his breast, "but he is gone now. We will not meet again until such a day should come that I have no place here."

Nelson studied the young officer in silence for a long moment, vague mental phantoms of those he had known who had passed on, flitting before his pale eyes as he tilted his brow in acknowledgment. "I understand... Just get back to Sick Bay -for now and the foreseeable future, you have a duty to perform."

"Aye, sir."

Almost as soon as the corpsman had parted his company, the world weariness that had darkened Nelson's brow like a shadow disappeared, hidden by a stolid, seemingly unperturbable mental mask. He knew what he really felt -the fear of what might or could be, the anguish over those lost and the pain he would have to inflict on those that remained- but he also felt a glimmer of hope that dared to grow a little with each small triumph...if only this mission was successful. Training gave his men the way, but devotion to their fellow crewmen was the only thing that would give them courage. Nelson nodded to C.P.O. MacNeil who was acting in Sharkey's stead. MacNeil returned the gesture. "All right, men!" he snapped. "Fore and center -on the double!"

At the sound of the equally uneasy C.P.O's voice, the members of the search and rescue party who had until then been going over some last details in a subdued silence looked up, their expressions a collective of scarcely hidden, anxiety -Nelson noted this with no surprise. A brave man could be afraid as well. As he had once told the then new captain of the Seaview, Lee Crane, Seaview' s men were trained to perform as commandos if needs be, specialists every one of them, but they were just human after all and seeking out their fellow crewmen had never supposed to have been one of their prescribed duties. As the Admiral stood before the men, each one of them stood at ramrod straight attention, waiting for their orders, some...some of them almost eager. They wanted to go home. They wanted their friends and crewmates to be well. It had become one desire.

Patterson, one of the most mild-tempered crewmen that Nelson had ever had serve under him, had been one of the first volunteers...and in a way, because of Kowalski.

Despite the drug mixture that laced the serum, physical suffering and mental confusion had been found to be part of the transformation back to humanity. Drugs helped, but they could only do so much and Kowalski had been suffering more than any of the others because he'd had so much further to go than either Morton or Sharkey in his struggle towards health. Patterson had convinced Doc to allow him to speak to Kowalski, to tell him everything would be all right now as only a close friend could tell him -and the shy, uncomplicated sailor had done just that: gentle words, comforting words...words of love. It hadn't mattered to him that his superiors had been within earshot as he had repeated tender declarations of devotion and endearment. This was a Patterson that neither Nelson nor Doc had ever seen...and somehow...it was all right -and the result had been a good one. A confused, frightened stricken Kowalski was now resting better and Patterson...it was as if having been permitted to visit the friend -the lover- he had thought dead or beyond all reasoning and help, even for those few short minutes, had given him a sort of inner release, giving him strength and drive, giving the same to whomever he had spoken of it.

Saving their fellow crewmen and themselves was no longer a desperate dream, it was a possibility...and they were not about to let that chance escape their grasps.

Nelson paced a short length before his men, every eye following him. "I know that you have all been briefed -that you all know the purpose of this mission- but because of the nature of this mission, I will reiterate. Your training was never meant for the purpose of tracking down those of your own." There was a soft, almost inaudible murmur. "But this is what you must do -without hesitation. Without uncertainty. For the sake of all of us. Anything else could not only cost an individual life, but those of the rest of the crew. You will go in teams of two and will be issued a white-sound generator and/or a portable white-light unit in order to flush 'transformed' crew from their hiding places -and you will only use your plasma weaponry if they make it impossible to do otherwise. No matter their appearances or state of mind, do not forget that they are indeed men that you know... and it is our duty to bring them home."

Again there was that soft buzz of murmuring voices but this time, the whispering held some note of hope. There was doubt and fear in every man, but that was not going to stop them. A soft sigh heaved Admiral Nelson's chest. "Chief MacNeil will inform you of your team partners and assigned search areas. Calloway and Bessel will hand out arms and equipment. Carry on."

And so, it was done. Harriman Nelson watched in contemplative silence, his rough, brooding visage a mask of noncommittal, as his men received their assignments, the murmur of their voices a low droning hum as his gaze traveled down to the modified plasma rifle laying in his own hands, and felt the heft of it. This was not a high-range plasma weapon, but it was close...so very close to the weapon that a nocturnal phantasm had seemed to hand him that time when his mind had been amongst the shifting netherworld of dreams and sleep. But had it been a mere dream? Or had it been more -a plea subconsciously or consciously sent by what little remained of a sane mind trapped in a sick, tortured brain?

It was possible.

He had seen many strange things in the course of his career, and even stranger things recently in the brief periods when troubled sleep would envelope him...and if it was at all possible for him to have done it, the young commanding officer of this ship would have tried to contact him somehow. Perhaps he had. "All right then, Lee..." Nelson whispered, sensing somehow that he was being heard. "I'm coming. I will set you free -but not the way you asked...not unless there's no choice."

From the dark recesses of a nearby ventilation shaft, sanguine-red eyes blinked in silent comprehension.




The dead were restless.

Dead... that was what those with awareness enough to think about it considered themselves. They had died...were dead still...and had awoken under a curse that only afflicted the living dead and overshadowed every thought -every passion- that they still possessed. Little else mattered. The thirst was all. It had become so great now that even their instinctive fear of the damning glare beyond the dark confines of their hiding places could not dissuade them from venturing out for much longer. One or two had tried it already. One or two had dared to cross the threshold between, artificial night and equally false day to hunt...to feed. Soon... Soon others would follow; a trickle at first and then a torrent...but not quite yet. The thirst was all, but the light was still the enemy and for the most part, they had yet to adapt to hunting for what their photosensitive eyes could not see.

It was then that the lights went out.

The first reaction was silence. Those who dwelt within the lightless passageways that honeycombed Seaview's mechanical being remained crouched, still, and silent as the places beyond their erstwhile sanctuaries became just as dark... just as devoid of light -but not one of them made a move as they waited, uncertainty whispering in their brains. The array that kept the great grey submersible's corridors in seemingly eternal daytime had dimmed before -that they remembered- but they also knew that the resulting gloom usually gave way to a sudden cold brilliance soon after, but this time...there was no sudden blaze of electronic glory. Instead, the darkness became complete, flickered a little, and then gave way to something like a vaguely remembered twilight. Still uncomfortable. Still bright to their hypersensitive eyes, but not intolerable. As one, they realized that they could get about in this near-night and yet...something...

Even as the whisper of suspicion became a shout -even as the warning siren of their heightened senses yanked their attentions away from the lure of the darkness from without and the prey that had to exist beyond it- the comforting blackness of the hiding places in which the changed remained was brutally rent asunder by a silent explosion of cold, white electric fire.

Panic replaced suspicion -instinctive, unreasoning panic that overwhelmed any sense of reason that might have remained- as the sterile brilliance flooded this section of Seaview's many passageways from one end, reaching towards the other as though the naked glare of the noonday sun itself had invaded their once dark domain. Sanctuary was sanctuary no longer and here they could not stay. Half-blind from the intolerable glare, their pallid skin scorched and welted by the same, the mutated members of Seaview's crew struggled -pushing and scrambling over each other- for whatever comfort existed in the greyness beyond.

"Now!"

There was no time to react. Had the reborn still possessed the presence of mind to do so, they would have pondered the reasons -confusion, pain, or the part of them that somehow remained human struggled even now not to go on like this- but whatever the reason, they had not been aware of what was waiting for them and now that they knew, there was no turning back. Neither pain nor thirst would let them. Two or three fell immediately even as they scented the human presences that their blinded eyes could not see and lunged to attack for the blood behind it, crumpling to the deck as the airborne darts imbedded themselves in their flesh, the pain that followed almost sweet in comparison to the agony with which they had lived upon rebirth.

As the first of the fallen spasmed, the serum attacking the insidious disease within them, others -compelled by a need which no longer heeded instinctive caution- literally threw themselves at the source of the new pain only to be cut down...save for one. He felt a draft of cold air across his left ear as the dart flew by him, barely a hair's breadth from the tender welted flesh. Some small part of his mind begged him not to run, not to fight -there was release at the fine steely point of those tiny missiles, he somehow sensed- but he could not allow it. As certainly as instinct had driven his fellows into the metal swarm, instinct -the voice of a disease that did not want to die- had bidden him run...escape ...hunt. The bloodthirst was strong in him; a coiled viper all too eager to strike despite the tears blinding his eyes or the piercing squeal that rang in his ears from what source he knew not. He could hear nothing...see nothing, but he could scent, and feel a warmth and presence that echoed with such familiarity at the back of his fevered brain though he knew not why and had little left inside him to care. The only peace that he felt since he had been reborn was the peace that came with feeding and the only joy, the joy that came just before the kill. What eyes and ears could no longer perceive, preternatural awareness told him in full -and he sensed blood...hot and sweet with terror.

And he needed it.

Now.

His feet had barely left the ground when he felt the pain. He didn't know where it came From or how such a little thing could throw him backwards as though he was nothing but a rag doll -it didn't really matter. The fact that remained was that the pain was a small thing; a tiny ice-cold needle that pierced his burning flesh so keenly that he felt nothing but the burning after its entry; a burning that suddenly bloomed into a nova so bright that he was blinded by the awful brilliance of it. When darkness came again, he was grateful.

Cold sweat beaded upon Patterson's already damp brow, the weapon he held almost falling from the weak grip of his trembling, perspiration-slickened hands as he swallowed deeply, his widened eyes riveted on the crumpled form prone on the deck before him as its arms and legs twitched in the last spasming throes of the violent convulsions the serum-bearing dart had triggered. He had known that this would happen -more intensely in some than in others- and he had witnessed it in the others he had helped to capture and hopefully cure, but it was horrible no matter the mental preparation. As Lt. Romano, his partner, kept a nervous watch, Patterson knelt down and gently touched the pale, furrowed brow of his unconscious stricken shipmate, disbelieving still. "Riley...Stu...I'm sorry." But there was no answer -there could not be- and if apologies were to be given or accepted, it would have to be later.

At that moment, Lieutenant Romano suddenly brought up the muzzle of his weapon, his stance acutely sharp, and then lowered it just as suddenly, shoulders slumping with relief, as the rhythmic sound of shod footsteps along the deck proved only to be the herald for the Admiral and his own partner rather than some blood-drinking nocturnal thing. Nelson stared at the crumpled form lying upon the deck, his brow furrowed by some emotion that his present crewmen could not determine -dismay or just as easily, relief -and looked up, studying his crewmen's faces. There was something behind that probing look -his men could sense it- but whatever it was would not be debated. Not now anyway. The instant that had seemed like an eternity passed. "Patterson!" The troubled crewman met his eyes. "Kamal!" Nelson's partner and shadow came to attention. "Get Riley to Sick Bay on the double!"

"Aye, sir!"

"Romano..."

The young lieutenant turned away from a scene that had recently become all too familiar to him; that of healthy crewmen picking up another, carrying him with as much loathing as care, loathing not for the man which they attended, but the marks of disease that still remained -it was just human nature. He had seen a lot of that lately and understood it. What he didn't understand was the reason for the distracted expression on his admiral's rough face. "Sir?"

Nelson stared into the distance for a moment longer, his expression still vague, his lips parted as if on the verge of speaking, before he blinked as though suddenly roused from a daydream and met the young officer's questioning face. "Go with them. With their hands full, they'll need someone to watch their backs. I'll continue along this corridor."

Romano shook his head ever so slightly, aware even as he said the words that he was treading on dangerous ground -as he had had it drummed into his head at Annapolis, one didn't question one's superior's orders unless one was willing to face the consequences as they came. "But, sir -your orders about not searching alone-"

"You needn't concern yourself about that, Lieutenant," Nelson murmured with a dismissive gesture of his hand and a glance at the rifle he bore. He proffered the hand-sized white-sound unit he carried to the increasingly flustered young officer -it was the only one between them and their light unit had failed only minutes ago. He was leaving himself especially vulnerable -he knew that, but Riley needed to be in Sick Bay and no-one would get there at all if they didn't, to put it crudely, watch their asses...any other reason was best kept to himself. He doubted that the lieutenant here would understand. Nelson forced a thin, hopefully encouraging half-smile. "Carry on, Romano ...and on the double."

The question failed on Romano's lips -he wasn't going to get an answer.




"Aft compartments clear. Moving forward."

"Hostile subjects contained -non-lethal force employed."

"How many subjects?"

"Four, sir -on their way to Sick Bay now."

"Good. Keep me informed of-"

Harriman Nelson's lips pressed into a thin line of doggedly grim determination, his eyes moving from side to side as he turned the corridor, his hearing tuned both to the subtle sounds at the edges of his senses and the half-heard words of the members of Seaview's search and rescue teams transmitted over the open band picked up by the portable radio headset he wore. The portable energy cannon that he bore felt good in his hands; heavy and comforting by the simple fact that it was there and by the power that its energy cells contained...not that he wanted to use it really, he countered silently, but it was assuring just the same. He had no delusions about his present situation -it was far from safe.

The Admiral paused for a moment, eyes searching, before he sighed softly and continued forward. Nothing. He had entered a very dangerous mode of thought which was, quite frankly, that he was beginning to doubt his senses. This lone search was rash, irresponsible, something he would have taken any sailor to task for doing likewise, and yet, he had chosen to pursue it on the whisper of an impression, a feeling that he had been called...mind to mind...with words that were mute in their impossible silence though he had heard them as if they been meant only for him.

That had been his impression -then.

But now, the deep confusion he had seen so obviously etched into Lieutenant Romano's expressive young face darkened his own like a shadow. Had he heard a summons...or had he heard nothing but the vague whisperings of a mind weakened by too much worry and too little sleep? He had no answer. He did not want to answer. That was the truth of it.

Nelson's hand went up to the earpiece of his headset, pressing it against the flesh of his ear as he listened to transmitted reports beaming across the open band. For the most part, the reports were encouraging. He would have to say that most of the stricken members of his crew had been found alive, the serum administered. They would soon be on their way to wellness and sanity...but there had been the other reports -grim tidings of several bodies found that would not be rising again until Resurrection Day and other reports of rescue team members attacked, injured and having to submit to the hellish treatment that they themselves had been obligated to administer to others -hellish because the medical corps had been wrong about one thing: the treatment was still sheer physical torture. Nelson's chest heaved visibly -more found than lost, but no sign of the one for whom he searched right now...the one whose mind he thought had touched his own if only for those few seconds.

Lessons unwillingly learned rushed to the front of Harriman Nelson's brain. The vampiric virus created at Station Delta had proven an almost intelligent disease -nearly sentient in its frightening capacity to ensure its own continuation.. .for its victims did whatever they had to do for themselves -and it- to survive. If it needed fuel, they fed. If in danger, they hid. If nourishment was unavailable, they would sleep until it came...no matter how long that took. An eternity if needs be. Nelson glanced about himself with all the caution of one who had become prey and at the edges of his perceptions, he half-heard the whine of a plasma rifle being fired, wincing even though he knew it had only been set on heavy stun and that the chances of survival for victim and searcher were good...mostly.

"Where..? Where are you..?" Nelson frowned all the deeper, his whispered words fading to nothing. Lee Crane had not been found, either sleeping or dead and to this admiral's knowledge, his confused friend and would-be love had taken no more victims, assuming he had taken any...which Nelson did not in reality doubt, and feared. Therefore, he deduced grimly, the captain of this ship was still about somewhere, still waiting. But where? And for how long? Few knew Lee Crane as he knew him and even fewer still knew the secrets that his complete service record contained. In his right mind, Crane was a survivor with few peers; a military man whose actual training and skills were by necessity still highly classified, making him as much an enigma to his crew presently as he had been the first day he had boarded this ship. Now, he was a predator whose plague-enhanced ability to survive, to kill, would make him the most difficult of all to apprehend -that Nelson knew. After all, he had helped to train the man and knew better than most what it was to fear and respect those special human talents that had long ago outstripped his own.

But whatever Crane was doing and where ever he was, it was nearby -had to be. Morton had said that the man shadowed him often and he believed it. Therefore, there was a way to bring his maddened captain into the open where the fine point of a dart would bring him surcease, but it was risky...a risk he had to take despite the danger. He loved Lee Crane that much -he felt that without reservation. He owed him life, sanity...and so much more and when he looked back on their service together, on the ways that his reticent captain had constantly gone out on a limb for him and only him, Nelson realized that those feelings were being returned -in actions if not words. that had always been Lee Crane's way. He had just been too blind to see it.

He did not wish to die, but his life -the life of Admiral Harriman Nelson, scientist and Navy man- had been a rich and full one...if the price of saving the life of Lee Crane was his own, today was as good a day as any to die.

Nelson grabbed the wall-mike he spied to his side and clicked it. "Auxiliary Circuitry Room -this is Nelson. Report."

"Auxiliary Circuitry Room -Neville reporting."

"Neville, at my word, I want you to rig for white three frames before and three frames after frames 31 through 35." Nelson paused. "I'll call you over my headset. Remember -at my word."

"Sir..?"

"Just do as you're told."

There was a low sigh. "Aye, sir."

Nelson let the mike fall from his hand to bang softly against the bulkhead, hitting it several times before it stopped and just hung there. A thin rivulet of cold sweat trickled down the side of Nelson's face as he scanned his surroundings. It was irrational, yes, and nothing he as a scientist could prove to anyone but himself, but he knew, he sensed now that Lee Crane was nearby...watching, perhaps vacillating between the instinct to remain safe and hidden -and the driving compulsion to feed. He didn't doubt that now...just as he did not doubt that there was only one way of which he could think to make things right. God help him... Nelson shoved his plasma rifle into its shoulder harness and slipped from his breast pocket a small pocket knife, its handle nicked and worn from years of use and abuse, and released its wickedly sharp blade with a small click. It glinted, reflecting the muted light of the corridor.

A small hiss escaped Nelson's tightened lips as he brought the razor-like blade down, hesitating only for a second or two before he brought it across the open palm of his left hand, grimacing as the keen edge bit first into the skin and then, into the flesh. This was the only way; if his captain was on the edge, he had to push him over it -he hoped that he would one day forgive him. Blood, darker and redder than he remembered, immediately bubbled to the fleshy surface from the resulting slash-like wound, the odor of the thick, warm carmine liquid strong even to his ordinary unenhanced human senses. He returned the sticky, stained weapon to his open breast pocket as he held his throbbing left hand up before his eyes and bunched it into a tight fist, noting with almost macabre fascination that the blood was seeping through the narrow spaces between his curled fingers, trailing down his forearm in tiny streams to splatter repeatedly onto the deck in tiny red drops...

...and then he waited.

It seemed like an eternity; longer perhaps, though at best, only seconds and minutes had passed in their endless crawl before Nelson heard...a sound; low and almost below perception. He did not know what had alerted him first -the sound or some sublime primordial instinct possessed by any hunted creature- but whatever it was, Nelson dove for the deck, drawing his plasma rifle as he did, as a solid blur barreled over his head with a guttural roar. Somehow -he didn't know how- he was able to roll onto his knees and scramble to his feet almost immediately, and as he did, his eyes widened with horror.

The thing Admiral Nelson had known as Lee Crane glared at him as he stared at it, mouth slack and open.

In Morton, Nelson had seen one kind of physical horror. In Kowalski, he had seen another. This was something else still. Despite himself, Nelson's hands trembled, the electronic rifle shaking ever so slightly as he pointed it at -what? In some ways, the creature that stared at him, eyes narrow, still resembled the Lee Crane he knew. In just as many ways, it did not.

The wild hair was as black as pitch and reflected no light, the skin as livid as that of a corpse, drawn over a face that had become almost skeletal in its leanness, the exposed fangs within a nearly grossly disproportionate mouth almost viperous, and the eyes... It was those hollow, sanguine slits of poison that remained trained on him, unblinking despite the reddish tears that streamed down the sunken cheeks of that sallow face...but ...Nelson, resisting fear's numbing paralysis, raised the thick black muzzle of the weapon, slightly, and those rubine eyes followed the movement, but his crazed captain made no other move than that.

Why did he not attack?

It was obvious. The dark gifts granted by Project M.I.N.A. were further-reaching than he, as a scientist, would have dreamed or dreaded. Despite what Thibideau had said, the virus was mutating and in some primordial fashion, Crane was reading his thoughts, not just sending his own. He could feel the touch of his thoughts. If the Captain did not know it before, he knew now what his admiral intended for him and for the disease within that did not want to die. Crane's chest began to heave rapidly, deeply, what he had become torn between the need that had compelled him to be here and the instinctive dread that held him at bay, his eyes locked on the barrel of that gun as he stepped...backwards.

Nelson shook his head, the paralyzing fear suddenly completely purged from his system by the equally sudden anger he felt -at himself and this damning disease. Not again. Not again. "NOW!!!"

All at once, as the Admiral had commanded, the three frames before and after this small dark arena were ablaze with cold, white light, enclosing both hunter and hunted in an even smaller stage of artificial twilight -but who was actually the hunter or the hunted neither knew nor did it really matter. Pain traveled up the arm of Nelson's wounded hand like a series of invisible serrated blades as he again brought up the muzzle of the plasma rifle and struggled to aim it on a being that seemed to have forgotten that he was hungry and that it was that need that had drawn him here in the first place. Anger was gone. Mindless rage was gone. Only fear remained in those haunted ruby eyes as the creature that Lee Crane had become searched, panicked, for some refuge from that damning light that trapped him here.

Despite the anguish he felt, Nelson drew a steeling breath...there was no turning back now...and pulled the secondary trigger. For a moment, there was no sound and then -nothing.

Neither being moved and then Nelson, eyes widening and face suddenly all the more pale, depressed the trigger a second time. This time, there was the small hiss of compressed air, but beyond that -nothing.

No dart ejected and the only evidence that the tiny missiles were in the chamber at all was a thin thread of pinkish translucent fluid that had begun to leak from a tiny crease in the housing of the unit itself -a crack; some insignificant physical slight caused by and during his drop and roll onto his knees...but not so insignificant after all. He knew it...and now, Lee knew it too. A totally corrupt, vulpine smile appeared on Crane's cracked lips. My God, Nelson thought in horror, he knew it!

Just as suddenly as it had appeared on Lee Crane's face, the fear was gone and in its place, something entirely inhuman. Only some instinctive fear of what was in those darts had held him at bay -and now that the threat no longer existed, and the doubt in the weapon that Nelson held was clear in the Admiral's mind- he was no longer frightened. He was hungry. The lure of his admiral's warm, life-giving blood was strong and he wanted it -all of it. The vampiric creature that wore the distorted face of the Captain of the Seaview took one step forward. Harriman Nelson took one step back, finger trembling over the trigger that led to the hand-held plasma cannon's energy chamber. He took another step backwards, not daring to turn his back on the advancing horror; not even to run for his life. "Lee..." Nelson whispered almost desperately, his mouth slack despite himself, the tremor in his voice pronounced enough for anyone to hear. "You know me...you know my thoughts and how I feel about you. If you remember who you are...if you have any control...if you can understand anything at all...don't make me fire on you!"

But there was no comprehension in those inhuman eyes, nor concern, only a ravenous hunger and thirst that crushed all reason and caring to the back of Lee's fevered brain...and even as the Admiral of the Seaview depressed the trigger, he realized that he had never really expected there to have been a response. He had had lost his one chance in his quarters those few hours ago. Electric blue and blinding, the beam of concentrated energy exploded from the rifle's metallic-black maw with a high-pitched mechanical shriek and hit the advancing, crazed captain square in the chest, the stink of scorched flesh filling the recirculated air. Crane recoiled, thrown, with an inhuman, animal-like howl of pain -but he did not stop. Before the horrified admiral's eyes, the blistered wound in his captain's exposed flesh seemed to flow like liquid and then heal. A gurgling laugh escaped the Captain's mouth as he immediately righted himself and advanced again.

A single movement of Nelson's outstretched finger moved the power meter up from low force to medium -a second movement fired the weapon. Blue-white fire jetted from the steaming muzzle, enveloping the Captain in a crackling web of energy -and he screamed, so loud and horribly that Nelson had to struggle with himself not to drop the rifle and let his hands fly up to cover his ears. When the paroxysm died down, Crane stumbled, falling to one knee, his body shuddering...even as the wounds again began to heal. Nelson, hating himself even as he did it, inched the power meter up to its highest degree -lethal force- and then his finger hovered over the trigger, trembling -he knew what he had to do. He knew, but as much as he did know what had to be done, he also knew that the man who huddled there, as twisted and deformed as this disease had made him, was the person he loved. How could he..? Just then, Crane looked up sharply, suddenly, and just for a moment, the mindless rage and hunger were gone as his eyes met those of his admiral as if probing his mind and thoughts, beseeching as he said in a small, ragged voice: "If you love me...please...stop me..?"

Nelson shuddered at the sound of that voice and forced himself to remain steady. "May God forgive me..." This time, the shrieking volley of concentrated energy was white-hot as it hit the Captain of the Seaview, the concussive force of it bodily throwing him beyond the confines of his prison of light, to tumble along the smooth deck until he rolled to a stop, his body jerking spasmodically for a time, and then, he was silent and still.

It was over. Oh God...he had never meant it to end like this, but it was over. Nelson forced himself to walk forward, his legs as shaky and weak as limp rubber bands, as he hesitantly drew to his fallen friend's side. Thin plumes of smoke drifted from the scorched areas on Crane's uniform where the plasma energy had burned it and the wounds... Nelson's eyes widened in horrified amazement. "Oh, Jesus..." Even as the disbelief formed in Nelson's brain, the burns covering Crane's inert body began to heal, the scorched and blistered flesh repairing itself, shifting faster and faster now. The Admiral shook his head frantically -what was he supposed to-

The answer came in a flash of grim inspiration.

Nelson's fingers, slick and clumsy with his own blood, shook as he fumbled with the loading port of the dart gun, struggling with the stubborn thing until it opened with a sudden pop, two darts falling to the deck and one undamaged missile falling into his hand. He dropped to his knees beside the body of his captain which had begun to stir, ignoring the pain of the abrupt contact with the hard, cold deck and with a shuddering breath, plunged the dart's sharp, needle-like tip deep into the flesh of Crane's chest.

The scream was unlike anything Nelson had ever heard. After the sights he had seen and the sounds he had heard on this accursed cruise, Seaview's admiral had come to think that nothing could shock his jaded sensibilities, but he couldn't have been more wrong. It didn't even sound like a human scream as it rang off the bulkheads, the sheer force of the involuntary effort compelling the agonized skipper to sit up, his back arching backwards at a degree that should have been physically impossible. Regurgitated blood and spittle came as a spray out of his open mouth as the awful, inhuman shriek seemed to climb in pitch and volume as though it would never stop, the Captain's limbs and head thrashing so violently that the involuntary blows against the deck broke the skin, splattering himself and the area around him with pale non-human blood.

Despite the fact that it was potentially the most dangerous and suicidal move he had ever made in his life, the Admiral grabbed the seizing C.O's violently thrashing arms, struggling to pin him down, unwilling to allow Lee to hurt himself any further. The Captain's bruised and bloodied head threshed against Nelson's lap as the seizure continued to build with no foreseeable end. All at once, Crane pulled one arm free of his admiral's desperate grip and grabbed the Admiral by the arm -hard- and Nelson, too, was forced to cry out in shock and pain as he felt the enclosed bone snap beneath the flesh, but he did not -he WOULD NOT LET GO.

The screaming stopped.

At first, Nelson could scarcely believe it, so intensely were his ears ringing, but it was true, and the silence that followed was so complete that for a moment, he suspected that he had been struck deaf. Shakily, with his uninjured right hand, Nelson pried the unconscious captain's loose grip from his twice-injured left arm, gasping aloud not because of the nauseating pain that traveled up and down the maimed limb but because he realized then that he was being watched. Crane's eyes were wide and bright with confusion and fear, his mouth moving slackly with words that refused to come until his damp, pale brow furrowed with some silent, supreme effort and his voice finally came as a feeble whisper. "Ad...miral..? Saved...me?"

Gradually, a small, tentative, sadness-tinged smile touched Harriman Nelson's lips as he awkwardly cradled the helpless man on his good arm and the words that he had hoped to be able to say came to him at last. "Yes. You're going to be all right, Lee -I promise." A small cry escaped his lips. "Lee...I love you."

Lee Crane nodded, eyes growing heavier, his mouth moving with words so soft that Nelson had to strain to hear. "Love...Harry...too..." Gradually, the dark eyes closed and Lee Crane sank into the realm of dreams, deaf to the sound of the footsteps of the search and rescue team that had just arrived.




"'I pass, like night, from land to land; I have strange power of speech. That moment that his face I see, I know the man that must hear me. To him my tale I teach'."

The leather-bound book, a seeming relic of ages past, weighed heavily in Nelson's awkward grasp, not so much weighty, in truth, as it was unwieldy when being balanced in the fingers of one hand as the other remained swathed both in bandages and a cast that reached past the elbow. The book that he held was a book of prayers, and of those he had read more than one, but the words he read right now belonged to those of an old poem written in another century; a copy of which had been pinned to the slightly creased page by a small colored paper clip -a poem which a certain corpsman had said had been his late commanding officer's favorite. As the words spoken at a funeral, they were far from traditional, but they more than sufficed...and the honored dead had ever deserved a proper send-off.

The arrangements were a little different than those he had first decided, but they, too, would suffice. He had vowed that the accursed legacy of Project M.I.N.A. would end here, and here it would end -with Seaview's missiles. The grande dame of the sea was seaworthy at last -halting and injured still- but operational nonetheless and within her huge loading bay were dead Voyageur's off-loaded nuclear arsenal, ready to be delivered to waiting representatives of her government -leaving only one duty to perform before Seaview and her crew could finally head for home...one grim and necessary duty. As the
solemnly silent Control Room crew listened, Nelson shifted the book that rested within his hands, his voice the only human sound in the room. "'Farewell, farewell! But this I tell to thee, thou Wedding guest! He prayeth well, who loveth well both man and bird and beast'."

Beyond the blind eyes of Seaview's still crippled external cameras the last grim scene of a fatal play would soon be performed. Those within Seaview that had died a true death had already been cremated, their ashes cast to the sea that had become their mother and father. Nelson knew that there were those who would question his decision and actions in this regard, as those who had experienced nothing and knew nothing often did after the fact, but it was a course of action he had not chosen lightly. Project M.I.N.A., for whatever little good might have come from it, was too dangerous a quantity to foist on an unprepared world and too cruel a legacy for the families of those that had been its victims -the dead also deserved to rest, not be poked or pored over until time without end for clues that probably wouldn't be found in their flesh anyway -it might not have been the right answer, but it was his answer. Remote-controlled torpedoes had been fired at both Antarctic Station Delta and the S.S.N. Voyageur, each unit now lodged in some part of each structure, each containing enough potential destructive power to vaporize any solid substance that remained...or the microbes that still infected them -a force to be released by pressing the button on the remote control unit at the acting second-in-command's side. Nelson suppressed a small shudder -one touch and his work was done...and he was so very tired. The last few words of the poem came to his lips, a eulogy drawing to a close. "He went like one that hath been stunned, and is of sense forlorn; a sadder and wiser man, he rose the morrow morn'."

In Harriman Nelson's hand, the book fell shut as he offered Lieutenant O'Brien a tilt of his brow. For a second, perhaps, a shadow of uncertainty darkened the young officer's face, but the moment passed even as he snapped to perfect military attention, the mourning-band-wearing crew of the Control Room smartly doing likewise on the same unspoken cue...and the button was pushed.

What they were unable to see, the crew of the Seaview heard -Seaview's blinded eyes could not hide them from the thunderous roar of explosions from above the sea or below it, as piece by flaming piece, Voyageur and Delta began their violent descent into nonexistence. Seaview shuddered from bow to stern, her struts vibrating and the strongest of her men shaken within by the ungodly sound of the man-made cataclysm...and yet... below the raging thunder that should have deafened the crew of the Seaview to all else, there was something more; a wailing sound like that of hundreds of human mouths crying out all at the same time as one collective cry of triumph, the joined voices of hundreds of once trapped souls -finally free.

For a time, the Admiral of the Seaview held his breath, not willing to break the spell of that short space in time, but even as he exhaled, the strange cry began to fade along with the echoes of a man-made storm of destruction that would, in time, expend itself completely. What he had heard and believed others had heard, he could not have heard, and yet, there was some small comfort in knowing if only for himself that he had heard it nonetheless -for those who had died, at least, it was truly over. "Mr. O'Brien."

"Yes, sir?"

Nelson cast a tired look at Seaview's massive viewing ports and the dark waters that pressed against them before he turned aside, his voice just as weary as it was solemn. "Let's get out of here."



11



By God, it was hot.

Harriman Nelson mopped his brow with the crumpled handkerchief he had pulled out of his hip pocket, marveling silently at the damning power of the mid-day sun at these latitudes, his exposed skin already bearing the tell-tale flush of the initial stages of sunburn regardless of the sun-block he had lathered on it or how sturdy the ozone layer was said to be these days -but go below? It wasn't time to do that just yet. Sunburn was a minor thing these days, easily corrected and easily ignored, and even were that not the case, he had been out of the sun's sight for too long to not take advantage of the opportunity when it presented itself.

Nelson cracked a tired half-smile at the fluid reflected image of the mid-day sun on the milky, hot fragrant liquid in the basin of his cup. Tea. He didn't particularly care for tea, but he cared even less for the brand of coffee they had on this ship, and in any case, what was the old saying -do as the Romans do? Though it had only been a matter of days, it seemed as if it had been a lifetime ago that Seaview, poor battered Seaview, had finally broached the surface of the sea to find herself all but nose to nose with another InterAllied vessel -the S.S. Elizabeth Kenny, one of the Republic of Australia's two, monstrous medical carriers -the ship on whose polished deck he stood right now... drinking tea.

There had been a few changes in the time that Seaview had found herself forcibly incommunicado -Great Britain had just launched her second nuclear sub with an all-female crew and the U.S. was about to launch its first, to note just two- and InterAllied, in its ever enigmatic wisdom had decided to go against its own orders and send help early. The Elizabeth Kenny had been the first to arrive -he and his crew were under quarantine on her now- and two other subs -the S.S.N. Trudeau from Canada and the U.S.N. H.R. Clinton- had arrived soon after, and were flanking Seaview as InterAllied science teams decontaminated her from keel to conn -they were being very thorough, and considering whet he and his crew had been through, he was glad to know it. He was glad of a lot of things...glad that Voyageur's nuclear arsenal had been off-loaded from his ship...glad that he could see the sun again. Glad to be alive.

He did not know why InterAllied had changed its mind. Scuttlebutt aboard the Kenny had it that high command had folded to international pressure -the Kenny's crew seemed to like to say that Australia had pressed the hardest due to sentiment because of the then upcoming Anzac Day on which they honored their military dead (which they were observing this very day)- but whatever the reason, Nelson did not feel inclined to quibble. Seaview was being decontaminated and repaired, and his crew was being attended -that was what mattered. Those that were fit, were bending to whatever task that the skipper of the Kenny could find them and the rest, the survivors of Project M.I.N.A's insidious plague, were embarking on the seemingly long road to a recovery that would be more complete than he could have hoped for his crew. Their bodies, no longer subject to the virus, were reclaiming their normal D.N.A.-encoded natures -the thirst was gone, as was the madness, and the physical changes were becoming less and less apparent with each day, either shed or absorbed to nothing. Some were well enough to sit and talk, often sharing scuttlebutt or the occasional joke -most of which seemed to have to do with the fact that the Kenny had a mixed crew or something about "shrimp on the barbie" -which the Australian crew seemed to take with polite, albeit pained, patience. It was all so pleasant and natural that it was almost enough to make him forget the horror of the past.

Almost.

But not quite.

There remained the fact that people had died -the crew of the Voyageur, the staff at Station Delta- and members of his own crew.

The names were indelibly printed on his brain. Grant, Minnelli, Jensen, Singh, Donley, Berber, Olson, Quint, Dillman, Quaid, Royce, Davies, Bellamy, and Weiss had died because of the blast that had taken Seaview to the bottom. The bodies, truly dead, off Kormos, Rose, Nakamura, Galloway, Dietz, and Svensen had been found in the search after Seaview's stricken had been captured. Mulroney, Tobias, Carmichael, and Loomis had died later, no matter the medical corps' efforts to save them. Then there were the other casualties: corpsman Gill wanted to take a sabbatical to decide his future; corpsman Rodriguez wanted out of the Navy and ParaNavy altogether; Ensign Madison had lost one of his legs after all; and Yeoman Morley would need a great deal of physical therapy for a long time to come -and the others, the other victims of the plague, had and would have their own troubles, no doubt. Some would stay. Some would not. For the most part, it was as if the virus had been a sentient thing and that when it died, the memories of what its victims had had to do, had died with it, but memories like those rarely stayed dead -of that he was grimly certain. There was a great deal of recovery -both physical and emotional- yet to come.

Nelson stared at the fluid image of the hot sun a moment longer and then drained the last of the now tepid brew before dropping the disposable cup into a recycling container and heading back into the interior of the great, floating medical facility, his mind suddenly troubled not by images of the past, but because a glance at his watch had reminded him of something he had promised to do and could put off no longer...not that he had really forgotten. There was nothing so difficult to forget as that which one did not went to do or feared one would have to do...even if it was for the best reasons. With luck, the situation wouldn't come to that point, but whether it was an acute case of pessimism or terminal realism, the Admiral of the Seaview didn't doubt that it would.

Ah, but then again, no-one ever said that life was fair or easy.

At the opposite end of the sterile-white corridor, the entrance to the Kenny's main medical lab came into view. Nelson squared his shoulders and pressed forward.




"-and these are the latest figures. As you can see, the metabolic rates are coming within normal parameters for all of our patients."

"Yes...the actual rate of physical normalization is nothing short of fantastic..."

"Agreed, but we have to take into account-" Doc stopped in mid-sentence and glanced up sharply from the medical folder in his hand, alerted by a familiar heavy step that he and the Kenny's chief medical officer were no longer alone. He didn't have to check the face of the watch on his wrist to learn the hour or to know that in his own way he had run out of time -that Admiral Nelson had appeared in the doorway just as he had said that he would was silent proof of that. "Admiral."

"Doc." Nelson glanced towards the Kenny's chief medical officer -admiral though he was, he had no real authority on this vessel to tell anyone to do anything; least of all to vacate their own sick bay...but he was going to do just that anyway -as politely as possible. "If I could have a few minutes of my chief medical officer's time, Lieutenant?" The physician cast a poorly hidden look of puzzlement at the two officers of the Seaview and nodded before making his exit on some medical pretense. "So?" Nelson asked, unconsciously massaging his cast-encased arm. "I believe it's time, isn't it?"

A hiss of frustration escaped Doc's tightly drawn lips, his lined brow creasing all the more deeply as he allowed the cover of the medical report to fall shut. "Admiral," he said with a low sigh, "I'm no longer certain that this is the right way to go about this."

"Oh?" Nelson replied with a slight lift to his left eyebrow as he met the physician's troubled gaze. "Has he started eating?"

Doc shook his head glumly. "No."

"And there's no physical reason?"

Another sigh. "No, sir. No physical reason."

"The rest of the patients recovering from V3 -they are starting on normal, solid food?"

Doc winced slightly and sighed aloud -he knew where this was heading. Right into the proverbial corner. "Yes, sir -they have. The upside of the situation seems to be that the virus had no time to make any permanent changes to their digestive systems -the effects are reversing- but not everyone is capable of progressing emotionally or physically at the same rate. That's the reality of it. While admittedly deficient in bulk, nutritionally, an intravenous diet is-"

"-slow starvation." The Admiral regarded the medical officer searchingly. "As I recall, those were your very words and we would not be having this conversation at all if you had not agreed that this way, though difficult, might be the only way."

Doc nodded wearily -he hadn't forgotten. He merely wished, at the moment, that the best course of action could also be the most pleasant one. That was rarely the case. "Aye, sir -you are right, but the question now is when to start." At that moment, there was a low knock at the door to the medical lab and one of the Kenny's enlisted men appeared at the entrance bearing a covered dinner tray. Doc glanced at the young seaman standing there in his stark white uniform quite uncomfortably, it seemed (it was more than likely that he had been waiting out of sight for some time, listening) and then regarded the Admiral almost accusingly. "You never had any doubt that the situation would turn out like this."

Nelson took the tray from the increasingly uneasy crewman and lifted the cover slightly for a moment to view the contents beneath and with a satisfied nod sent the crewman away before he returned Doc's accusing stare. "I prefer to think of myself as one who prepares for the least desirable eventuality...and in either case, if I know the nature of anyone, I know this patient's personality best of all. Carry on."




It was an odor, a savory perfume, that reminded him of pleasant times and home.

Nelson inhaled deeply of the warm aroma escaping the covered tray he carried, the familiar scent bringing a small wistful smile to his otherwise stern countenance as he walked the sterile, narrow corridor, his destination not yet in sight. He breathed deeply the aroma of Irish stew, thick with vegetables cut especially small and the meat prepared in much the same way. Cookie had done an excellent job of preparing the meal -the recipe for the hidden dish was a Nelson family treasure and if it didn't get the desired effect, he had no idea what else would. Desperate measures for desperate times -it had required a good measure of the blarney in the Irish part of his blood and had cost him a good many of the owed favors he had accrued during his years of service to get the permission to break through the new web of silence InterAllied had dropped around the area...but if his plan worked, it would be well worth it. Perhaps he was using important amassed favors for personal ends, but what of that? They were his to use and new debts could be gathered again in time...and as needed. That, too, was a part of military politics.

Nelson pressed against the cold bulkhead as several members of the Kenny's medical corps passed by on what he hoped was a minor errand -it was hard to tell. Like the stark white utility uniform he wore now, the medical corps had worn their sterile medical whites ever since he and his crew had boarded the Kenny; at first, as a precaution -now, as a necessity. Project M.I.N.A's creation had left one invisible mark on each of its surviving victims -their immune systems, to the man, had almost been destroyed, and while synthetic immuno-enhancers would restore those capacities in time, at the present, something as minor and normally non-threatening as the common cold, left untreated, would certainly prove fatal. They were taking no chances -Nelson adjusted the white cap that covered his hair- and neither was he. The Seaview had lost too many men this cruise -if he had anything to say or do about it, she would lose no more. Nelson drew a steeling breath as his destination came in sight and paused, balancing the tray clumsily on his cast-encased arm, as he extended his free hand and gently rapped on the door.

No response. A minute passed, perhaps two, before the Admiral grasped the metal handle, turned it, and stepped back as the door slowly inched open. He then quietly, cautiously stepped inside...and even as he did, he was struck by the strongest sense of déjà-vu. How long ago was it -a seeming lifetime ago- that he had stepped into a cabin on the Seaview just as he was now, bearing sustenance just as he had then for almost exactly the same reasons? Not that long ago at all. But not everything was the same. That cabin had been cold and dark -the light in this semi-private recovery room was only a little dimmer than normal and it was warm, pleasantly warm -the medical corps didn't want to chance any of its patients catching a chill.

Nelson set the tray down on a nearby desk and looked toward the one occupied bunk. The pale sheets pulled up to his chest, the Captain of the Seaview lay sound asleep, curls of dark hair pasted loosely against his damp pallid brow, his hands twitching slightly in response to whatever sleeping play that was unfolding before his mental sight...a good sleep, he hoped, and with even better dreams. What the conscious mind could not fully remember, the subconscious never forgot and more than one recovering patient had woken up from some horrible nightmare confused or crying -but they were getting better. They were. Morton had indicated that he was staying on as had Sharkey, Riley, and Kowalski. Patterson, at the time of their rescue, had indicated uncertainty, but where Kowalski went, Patterson would follow -he was staying on too.

Most of the familiar faces that were the crew of the Seaview were not taking the option of being transferred -why, he didn't know, but he was glad of it. If only he could be as certain of the choice one particular man. Nelson started, his train of thought broken as he spied on the bunkside table, a little evidence of the healing he had hoped to see -an English chocolate bar, a Fry's cream bar, if he was right- its foil and paper wrapping slightly torn and partially open, the dark candy within partly nibbled away, but the smile of delight on his lips faded quickly. A partially eaten candy bar was hardly proof that the Captain of his ship had started eating the solids he had thus far refused. Chocolate could be melted in the mouth and swallowed as easily as liquid; no real substance at all.

Just then, the Admiral turned sharply, startled by the sound of a low moan to his side. Asleep still, Crane had begun to stir in his restless unconsciousness, his still painfully thin features drawn in a grimace, but whether in fear or pain Nelson did not know...and could not tell even as the young commanding officer began to stir more violently, his arms and head thrashing feebly against the dampening creased, pale sheets, the moan now more like a cry. Nelson sat to the side of the restlessly sleeping captain, his brow creased with mounting concern as he reached over to grasp the unconsciously struggling man by the shoulders. "Easy, Lee..." All at once, the Captain sat bolt upright with a strangled cry, his eyes wide and unfocussed, his chest heaving, his trembling hands grasping the Admiral by the arms as he leaned against him, literally shaking...like a frightened child. "Easy, love...easy," Nelson said softly. "You're all right. You're safe now. Easy..."

By and by, the disorientation and blind terror seemed to fade as Crane's ragged breathing slowed, becoming more even, but his grip did not loosen and when Nelson shifted his position slightly, Crane cried out softly. "No...don't leave..."

Nelson braced the too-thin back with his healthy arm, pulling the traumatized man closer. "I'm not leaving, Lee. I won't leave 'till you tell me to."

They stayed that way for several long minutes before Crane looked up with wide, dark eyes. "I feel...I'm sorry. I...feel like an idiot...panicking because of a bunch of dreams."

"Bad ones by the sound of it, love."

"Yes...it-" Crane paused, realizing as the rest of the fog lifted from his brain, that Nelson had called him "love" -it felt nice. Better than nice, in fact. It was still difficult to accept that Harriman Nelson, hardboiled and Navy through and through, could be that openly affectionate. "Very bad dreams."

Nelson nodded thoughtfully. "I could ask Doc to give you something to help you to relax, if you wish."

"God no," Crane said in mock protest as he finally forced himself to sit and awkwardly struggled to pile his pillows up behind himself. A low laugh escaped Crane's mouth. "I think I've slept enough. I can't remember seeing an entire day since...since..." The Captain's eyes closed for a moment, his brow creasing ever so slightly at the sudden flood of mental flotsam visible only to himself; ephemeral, transient, none of it good...none of it pleasant to remember though he was beginning to suspect that he had little choice in the matter of recalling things or not recalling them. The faintest ghost of a smile crossed Crane's wan, drawn countenance as he returned his admiral's probing and troubled gaze. "I have rested long enough -I want to feel like a man again not a helpless child. I need..." A hint of sadness entered the weak smile. "I need to know what's going on around here -the medical staff won't tell me anything...and scuttlebutt isn't official."

It was a change -a small change, true- but a change nonetheless...and a good one. Perhaps he had feared needlessly. The road to recovery was often a long, arduous journey and recovery from Project M.I.N.A's creation was no exception. During the initial leg of the healing process of Seaview's stricken crew, they had been allowed few visitors and in the brief periods when Nelson had been allowed to attend his crew, sometimes to be at Lee's side, Crane had either been unconscious or in a delirium wherein the Captain had barely recognized him at all. Sometimes even the relaxants wouldn't give him rest, the only thing to bring comfort had been the Irish lullabies that Nelson softly crooned to him while holding his hand, regardless of the puzzled stares. Even after the sickness-induced dementia had passed, it had been as if the flame of purpose which had always burned so brightly within the man had disappeared...perhaps never to return. This was the first time since that time that Nelson had seen a single spark of that old flame. "You haven't missed much," the Admiral said, reaching over and placing another pillow behind Crane's back. He leaned back. "The corpsman that you brought back from Delta-"

Crane frowned, trying to retrieve the memory -now it came. "Thibideau?"

"He left us yesterday with some official-types from Inter-Allied -they came for the information on Delta and Project M.I.N.A. and took him with them...for debriefing, I suppose."

Crane leaned forward, cautiously intrigued. "What kind of officials?"

"The usual kind...nondescript droids in equally nondescript black suits with all the right credentials," the Admiral replied dismissively, the disinterest in his voice belying the concern that tickled at the back of his mind -they had been almost too nondescript. They had come with all the right papers and credentials, but having worked with the higher echelons of Inter-Allied, he thought he knew all of the agents that InterAllied would have sent to retrieve the kind of information that had been gathered at so dear a price during this mission -but each impassive, nondescript face had been almost disturbingly unfamiliar to him.

But they had had all the authority that they had needed and Nelson had had to stand aside, on this ship, as strangers rifled through his ship like thieves and trespassers, gathering all of the hard copy, purging each and every one of Seaview's computer banks of the data on Project M.I.N.A., confounding the blank spaces in the computers' memory banks with gibberish as if they had been afraid that someone, somehow, might dare to search the nebulous realm of cyberspace for any fragments of information that might remain -for all anyone knew, beyond the knowledge in the heads of the crew of the Seaview (knowledge which no-one in his right mind would dare reveal anyway) Seaview and Station Delta had never encountered each other...and there had never been any Project M.I.N.A.. Indeed, even the decision Nelson had made to destroy Delta and the Voyageur was to fall under this new veil of silence...as well as other things -for the good of the general peace...of course. He was not so sure of that at all.

Nelson sat back, gradually aware of the odd quietude that surrounded the Commanding Officer of the Seaview and himself, Crane staring into some unseen distance in such complete silence that the Admiral found himself wondering if a single word he had said had been heard at all...or if Crane had again slipped into some personal oblivion. He had told him many details before only to have to repeat them upon realizing that the man hadn't heard a word -but that didn't happen very often now. The moment stretched on and then Crane blinked and slowly met Nelson's concerned gaze. "And Thibideau -what'll happen to him...after the things you told me he did?"

Nelson exhaled heavily, hunching his shoulders slightly. "I don't know. As I said, he'll be debriefed, no doubt, but as for his part in all of this -the information he'll give and the help he gave may allow for some clemency from the powers-that-be and, hopefully, that'll be the end of it." He hoped. As to whether that would truly be the end of it, Nelson did not know. Lieutenant Jr. Gr. Mathieu Marcel Thibideau was still as much an enigma to him now as he had been before -though he believed that Thibideau's anguish over the loss of his captain and crew was sincere and profound, he still could not believe that the man had told the entire truth. There were too many discrepancies between what he had said and what Nelson feared...and suspected...and told to the Captain of the Seaview who had again sunken into a troubling silence. Nelson paused for a moment, waiting, almost trying to divine the silent thoughts behind that pale brow and then: "What are you thinking, Lee?"

Lee Crane shook his head wearily. "So many questions...so many lies told to keep ourselves safe...and all of it so necessary. Sometimes I wonder..." He sighed aloud. "When I was 'sick', I did have brief moments of lucidity...times when I knew enough to almost think that I had been consigned to Hell for some of the things I've done no matter how necessary...and other times, I found myself remembering other assignments and other incidents when I found myself under the control of something or someone other than myself -times when my mind was all but raped, and I realized that this was yet another one of those...and that, in a way, I had set myself up for it...and I know that if I stay on the course that I'm on, it could happen again. No matter how careful I em, there's no guarantee that it wouldn't." Crane's dark, troubled eyes narrowed. "I could probably change all that, couldn't I? By resigning my commission...by embarking on a quieter, safer life. I think I'm entitled to that."

Nelson slumped inwardly, the dread he had felt crystallizing with the utterance of a few simple words. It was as he had feared -Lee was leaving...the Navy...the ParaNavy...and him. God only knew how much he didn't want him to leave, but the fact was that he had revealed the depth of his feelings to the younger man at the wrong time and too late. Now, Lee crane could only associate him with memories of fear and pain. Nelson swallowed the tears and held a painfully thin shoulder. "I know you are, Lee -more than most. If...if that's what you really want... Have you...made a decision?"

Crane uttered a soft, enigmatic laugh that faded with the next breath drawn. "Do you remember, Admiral, how years ago, I 'pestered' you for your official approval to enter the naval academy -because I was underage?" Nelson nodded, a faint smile on his lips at the memory of that willful youth -oh yes, he remembered. A glimmer of a smile lightened Crane's face as well. "Did you ever ask yourself why?"

"No... I assumed it was because you love the sea."

"I do...Harry...I do. Always have, but there was something else...even then." Crane blushed. "It was the same reason that Cathy Connors and I went our separate ways...called off the wedding those years ago."

Puzzlement creased Nelson's brow. "I..." He chuckled. "To tell the truth, I thought it was because you had an argument over that silly crush she had on me."

"No." Dark brown eyes met pale blue. "It was because she couldn't get over the fact that I had a crush on you...always did...still do. Admiral...Harry...I'm not staying only because I love the sea...and the Navy. I'm staying because I love you."

"My God...all the time we've wasted..." Nelson drew Crane tightly against himself. "Are you sure that you want a prickly old man like me?"

"If you can put up with a headstrong young man like me -yes."

Yes -that was all that Nelson needed to hear to believe it was so and a small chuckle escaped his mouth -he doubted that Crane would understand, but in this much, he was more relieved than anyone could ever know. "God, but I love you too." But there was something else... Even as the unwelcome thought re-entered Nelson's mind, the aroma of the meal as yet untouched filled his nostrils with his intake of breath. He hadn't forgotten and Crane had surely noticed it. He sighed, steeling himself. "Doc tells me that you still haven't started eating."

A brief shadow of annoyance darkened Crane's brow, his eyes closing against it until the moment passed. "I will -but not yet. I'm not hungry."

Nelson studied the Captain's pale, painfully thin face, noting the hollows that had not struck him as being so deep before, and the way that Crane had quickly averted his gaze even as he had uttered the obvious lie: "I'm not hungry." Crane had never been a man that ate heavily or gorged himself, never dieted, never had to, and usually had a lean and healthy form that this admiral had to admit to wishing he had the stamina to attain (even if only to himself), but right now, Crane was more than lean -he was gaunt, and by Doc's estimation, a good twenty pounds underweight...with the likelihood of losing more if the situation failed to change -he could not even wear the signet ring which he had earned and cherished for it slipped from his finger as if it had been crafted for some other, larger, man and remained on the table beside his bunk. It could not go on like this. It would not. Nelson exhaled heavily. "I see."

At those words, Harriman Nelson stood up and walked to the table on which he had laid his small burden, Crane watching him all the while in an uncertain, puzzled silence, even as Nelson picked up the covered tray and brought it to his bedside and again sat down -at once, the Admiral of the Seaview again. "Lee, as long as I've known you, you've had this distaste for deception even when you had to do it -and I know you're not being forthright with me."

"I-"

Nelson pressed a finger against Crane's lips even as he was about to speak. "I don't know how much you remember of what happened to you or what that accursed disease forced you to do...and I cannot know the extent to which remembering makes you suffer -but I do know that it will pass and that I have no desire to lose even one more member of this crew to that disease for any reason." Nelson paused. "Thus, I have come to a decision and you, my love, will obey these orders to the letter." The uncertainty in Crane's face deepened, his eyes searching his admiral's countenance for some clue. "Starting today, I am going to see that you eat. Regardless of my schedule or workload I shall, three times a day, bring your meal and, three times a day, return to see that it has been eaten."

Crane's eyes widened, his jaw slack with incredulity. "You can't-"

"If that proves unsuccessful," Nelson continued, willing himself to ignore his captain's aghast disbelief, "I shall continue to bring your meal three times a day and regardless of schedule or workload, and I shall wait until as such a time as you consume your meal completely."

"You can't be serio-"

"And if that venture proves just as unsuccessful, Captain," Nelson continued, his voice rising ever so slightly, "I shall continue to bring your meal three times a day regardless of my schedule or workload -however this time I would be accompanied by four of the surliest corpsmen I can find who would forcibly see that you sit still while I spoon-feed you -which would, no doubt, prove as humiliating to you as it would be embarrassing to me..." Nelson paused and picked up the metal spoon beside the covered platter. "...unless you are willing to start..?"

For a time, a seemingly endless moment, there was silence; a stillness that was thick and heavy with all but unbearable tension as the mortified captain of the Seaview continued to stare at his admiral, still aghast, incredulous and thoroughly uncertain whether or not the man was joking...but even as he studied Nelson's face, searching the expression in his eyes or the turn of his lips, Crane came to a conclusion that was as dreadful as it was unbelievable -Nelson was not joking. What he had said, he truly meant -and would carry out. Crane stared at the covered tray which, being meant for bedridden patients, had been placed across his lap, and accepted the spoon as he removed the metal cover from the platter-like bowl, his hand trembling ever so slightly.

Immediately, the aroma of Irish stew, still very warm, assailed his nostrils, pungent and so comfortingly familiar, as he drew the spoon around the edges of the bowl, stirring the thick broth and its tiny chunks of vegetables and meat. Nelson had been wrong about one thing, at least. He had only been partially right about why his captain didn't eat. Oh, he remembered bits and pieces of what he had done, all right -about the gore that his body had craved and that he had taken it- though from whom he was blessedly uncertain and hoped that he would never remember, but the fact of the matter was that though his brain still remembered what it was to eat, his body and, perhaps, his psyche, did not. The chocolate he had tried to nibble had gotten no further than his mouth before he had had to spit it out into the toilet, gagging at the thought of actually trying to taste or swallow it; the awful nausea had come when he had been possessed by that plague whenever he had tried-

Crane brought a spoon of the mixture up to his lips and determinedly stuffed it into his mouth, clamping his lips tightly shut even as he removed the utensil. Nelson looked on in an uneasy silence.

For what seemed to be an eternity, Crane didn't swallow, instead moving the stew around in his mouth with his tongue as if trying something entirely alien, arid when he did swallow, every muscle in his emaciated form tensed, his mind and body steeling themselves against the expected agony and torturous nausea that had come with the eating of solid food...and yet -this time- did not. Crane waited for a few seconds, uncertain, his eyes moving as if to search for the physical anguish to which he had become so accustomed, and then sampled the stew again, his hand shaking enough to spill almost as much as he swallowed...and a small, disbelieving smile lighted his lips as his brain translated the messages of his senses, revealing to him not one discovery but two. Not only was the thick, substance laden broth delicious -he was actually, suddenly, very hungry.

The Captain of the Seaview glanced up, not at all surprised to see the smug look of "I-told-you-so" on his admiral and love's visage, and shrugged sheepishly, his expression profoundly innocent. "What?" he said. "No dessert?"

A broad grin split Harriman Nelson's lined countenance. "I think that we'd best discuss 'dessert' when you're a little stronger." He winked. "Don't you?"

At that, Lee Crane burst into laughter -and it felt good. Life was no more perfect now than it had been, but with life, there was the joy of hope...

...and love...

...and the adventures of the crew of the S.S.R.N. Seaview would continue.



EPILOGUE



The long, featureless corridor stretched on ahead of him, his destination as far as it was near.

He had never liked this part of a mission. For most, completion meant satisfaction in a job well done, but for him, there was always that sense of depression like the let-down that followed holidays when one found himself physically and emotionally spent...and this time, it was worse. He had followed his orders and had gotten the job done -but he had lost people that had actually meant something to him. It wasn't supposed to happen that way, but it had.

At either side of the entrance, expressionless guards stood at mannequin-stiff attention, their eyes moving only to acknowledge the flash of his identity card just before he entered the inner chamber of this massive underground complex where a computer of which the general population could not conceive was constantly fed data of which the general populace could never know. The tiny, mirror-like disc he carried shimmered as he placed it in the loading port.

Immediately, the pitch of the constant hum in this room changed, rising as he placed his hand against the panel which read each whorl and line on his palm, carrying the information on micro-fine laser beams to the computer's monstrous memory banks. Almost at once, electronic read-out appeared on the dark screen before his eyes. [Thibideau, Agent Lieutenant Jr. Gr. Mathieu Marcel -identity confirmed. How may I help you, sir?]

Thibideau's fingers danced over the recessed keyboard -this part of his life even Captain Hudson had not known until the last when he had asked the man's forgiveness...and this part of the greater scheme of things InterAllied could not know -for its own good. Rife with limitations that organization may have been, but it was still too honor-bound to deal with the dirtiest side of keeping peace. The words appeared on the screen. [Access file: S.S.R.N. Seaview/ Sub-File: Bio Weapons/ Section: Genetic Engineering/ Subsection: Humanoid Transmutation]. Only seconds passed before the great synthetic brain provided the asked-for file, Thibideau's pale eyes darting back and forth as he manually scrolled past sealed top-secret electronic documentation on events of which the victims understood or knew little, reading each name silently: [Operation: Werewolf], [Operation: Brand of the Beast], and [Operation: Man-Beast] to name only a few, passing others until he came to an empty computer folder and depressed the key beneath his finger.

It took less than ten seconds for the information to download from the CD-RW into the electronic file and less than that for the message [Operation: Project M.I.N.A. -download complete. File accepted] to appear on the screen. Another touch and the screen went blank, the now-empty disc ejecting at the same time.

Thibideau slipped the disc into the hip pocket of the jacket of the jet-black suit he wore as he exited the chamber, his expression grim. An overly active conscience was something one in this organization could ill-afford -it had caused him to panic, weaken and doubt -and his masters knew it...but they didn't particularly care -not for the moment. The directors of this needfully perverse union of nations had the information they had sought -the evidence of the folly of which they were all a part was now safely hidden. Thibideau sighed aloud.

Why couldn't duty be easy?



*finished*


Dedicated in loving memory of Irwin Allen, Richard Basehart, and Paul Trinka.


Quotes:
1 "Alien" by Dan O'Bannon
2 "Dracula" by Bram Stoker
3 "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" by Samuel Taylor Coleridge