seaQuest is not mine. Don't you guys ever get bored of hearing that?
A thousand salaams to all you wonderful reviewers out there: ano, bbclarky, pari106, PhoenixTears80, sara, Pheniox-Skye and Mar. To know you guys are enjoying it makes it all worthwhile : )
Pro Patria Mori
Chapter 9
Wolenczak shifted uncomfortably in his chair and wondered why he was not dead. His side still hurt, despite the painkillers the doctor had given him that morning. She had checked in his mouth to see that he had swallowed them. She was good.
He wondered what her voice sounded like. In the days he'd been aboard the seaQuest he'd never heard her speak. When she tended him first, when he was sick, she had seemed serious and focussed, and he hadn't tried to speak to her. Now, sometimes, she flashed him a kind smile. Once, shortly after he had first regained consciousness, he had woken to find her watching him with sadness in her eyes. He wondered what she was sad about.
Sometimes he heard her voice in his dreams, but he never saw her face. Just like his mother. And all those hours alone in the cell, lying on his back and trying not to think, he focussed on the voice of his dreams, the voice that had merged with his mother's voice, waiting, wanting it to be the last thing he heard.
But death hadn't come. Something had gone wrong. And now he had been sitting alone, hands cuffed to the table, for what seemed like hours. He was waiting for the hammer blow to fall. He wondered if waiting was part of the torture. He concentrated on keeping his back straight, his expression blank, knowing they were watching him. But inside his stomach was twisted with fear. Waiting for death had been one thing – sometimes it seemed to him that that was all he had done his whole life – but this was quite another.
The door opened. He forced himself not to react, not to look up. He didn't want to know who it was.
A figure seated itself in his line of sight across the table. He knew the face, though he had seen it before only at rest. Awake, the man looked uneasy, though trying to smile. He placed a thick file on the table in front of him. Then he raised his head and looked Wolenczak directly in the eyes. For a moment, neither spoke. Then Robert Bridger nodded his head.
"Good morning Lucas," he said quietly.
Robert smiled, trying to cover his unease. His father hadn't been happy about him questioning the prisoner, wanting to do it himself, but Robert had convinced him that the boy would relate better to someone closer to his own age. He knew what he had to do – turn the boy against the Free Nations, tell him of his UEO heritage, persuade him to tell his secrets. It had sounded easy in the Ward Room – after all, they had all the evidence – and Robert had been pleased at a chance to be an active member of the crew, hoping he might prove himself to his crewmates, his father – even himself. But now, faced with a cold blue stare, an expressionless face that looked so different from how it had in Med Bay, Robert wondered if he shouldn't have left it to his father after all. He still felt something drawing him to the boy, something he couldn't explain. But that stare made him nervous.
He cleared his throat. "We haven't officially met," he said. "My name is Robert." He extended a hand, then realised that the other man's hands were cuffed to the table. Stupid, stupid, he thought. Gain the boy's confidence. Hard to gain someone else's confidence when your own was rapidly ebbing away. He leaned forward conspiratorially.
"Commander Ford's pretty pissed at you," he said, with what he hoped looked like a mischievous grin. It felt more like a grimace. "He's one of the youngest commanders in the fleet, you know. I think he's pretty proud of it. Or was."
The boy – Lucas – regarded him steadily. Not a flicker of emotion broke the mask on his face. Robert sighed, knowing he didn't have long. Westphalen was already livid about how long the boy had been kept sitting in the interrogation room while he argued with his father. He had to play his trump card.
"There's something I need to tell you," he said gently. He knew this one was going to require some tact. "It's about your parents. We've found out who they were." The ice in the boy's stare seemed suddenly to intensify. "This is our file on Lawrence Wolenczak, your father." He opened the file to the first page, where there was a picture of Wolenczak, and slid it over. The kid didn't even glance down. He kept his gaze trained on Robert. Robert swallowed. "He and your mother where murdered by the Alliance of Free Nations."
The looked-for reaction came so suddenly that Robert almost jumped out of his skin. The colour drained from the boy's face, except two spots of burning red in his cheeks, and his eyes flashed with sudden rage.
"That's a lie," he said, and though his voice was not loud it sounded like thunder in the stillness of the room. "My parents were killed by the UEO."
Robert sat for a moment, still startled by the boy's sudden animation. Before he had a chance to react, however, the shutters had slammed closed again, and the only traces of that moment of breakthrough were two spots of fading colour in the boy's cheeks and the clenched muscles of his jaw. But he had hit home. That was enough for Robert, for now at least. He stood to leave.
"I'll leave that here," he said kindly, gesturing at the file. "In case you want to read it."
And with that, he was gone.
Wolenczak was fuming. How dare they! How dare they claim the Alliance had killed his parents! He paced backwards and forwards in the narrow cell, not caring anymore that they were watching or even that the pain in his side was growing. He ground his teeth and clenched his fists and tried to keep his emotions in check as much as possible. How dare they.
In truth, he was angry at himself as much as them. After all, what had he expected from the damn UEO? Pain, that's what, he reminded himself. Interrogation. Not this. Funny how kind words and smooth lies stung worse than a dozen blows.
That's what they want, soldier. The thought came in Braithwaite's voice, like his inner pep-talks always did. They're smarter than you give them credit for. They knew where to hurt you. Now they've got a reaction from you, they're never going to stop needling. Wolenczak knew it was true. He should never have spoken to the kid, not once. But it had been so unexpected. Like they had known the one thing that kept him going every day in the war, in his life, and tried to rip it out from under his feet. Well they weren't going to succeed. Wolenczak forced himself to slow his pacing and draw deep, calming breaths. They seemed to think they were dealing with some kind of child. All the kindness, calling him 'Lucas' – no- one ever called him that! – but they were dead wrong if they thought that just because he was young he was going to be easy to crack.
By the time the doctor came in, Wolenczak was seated calmly on the bed, his mask back in place. The woman looked at him with kindly eyes, but he didn't return her gaze. No more giving in to their tricks. After she had given him his shot and disappeared, he allowed his shoulders to sag slightly. Roll on pain, he thought, feeling emotionally exhausted. Anything's got to be better than this.
The following day, Wolenczak felt stronger, more able to deal with things. He kept his gaze carefully averted when the doctor came in. She had sung to him in his dreams last night. If he didn't know better he'd swear the UEO were piping her into his head on purpose.
The wait in the interrogation room was shorter today. The interrogator was the younger Bridger once again. This time he was carrying a petri dish. "Good morning, Lucas," he said, and Wolenczak sneered inwardly. "Did you read the file?"
Wolenczak had not touched the file. He knew they knew that, since he had placed it in a prominent position in his cell. They weren't going to get him reading their propaganda that easily. He knew all about the techniques of brainwashing, had started to learn them before he could pilot an attack sub. No matter how much his fingers had itched, he hadn't given in.
The lieutenant slid the petri dish over the table to him. Wolenczak allowed himself to glance down briefly, without moving his head. "Do you know what that is?" the young man asked. Wolenczak didn't respond. Of course he knew, he'd designed the damn thing. Well, now he knew why he wasn't dead.
"It's an implant the ship's doctor removed from your body." Wolenczak forced down an impulse to twitch at the word 'doctor'. "It contained cyanide, and was designed so that it could be remotely activated after your capture to release the cyanide into your bloodstream." Bridger waited. "To kill you," he added.
Wolenczak wondered what the point of all this was. Maybe they were just trying to confirm that there was no escape. Death would not save him from their clutches, they had made sure of that. Well, he'd figured that out by now anyway: Braithwaite would have activated the implant long ago if he could have. But he supposed this meant that the Free Nations thought he was dead. He hoped they didn't become overconfident based on that assumption. He knew that everyone cracked under torture eventually – another titbit of knowledge from his early childhood – and though he was determined to hold out as long as he could, he was sure he would be no exception. At some point, the UEO would find about the Freedom's cloaking technology. He hoped Braithwaite was a long way away when they did. He remembered the captain's words to him: You may have just won us this war. Lost it, more like. He noticed that Bridger was looking anxious and wondered what he had expected. Trembling confessions? Begging for mercy? No, you'll have to work a little harder to get those, he thought grimly. To his surprise, the young man rose to his feet, picking up the petri dish.
"Well," he said, "I'll leave you to think about that for a while."
He left. Wolenczak watched him go, not sure whether to be relieved or afraid.
A thousand salaams to all you wonderful reviewers out there: ano, bbclarky, pari106, PhoenixTears80, sara, Pheniox-Skye and Mar. To know you guys are enjoying it makes it all worthwhile : )
Pro Patria Mori
Chapter 9
Wolenczak shifted uncomfortably in his chair and wondered why he was not dead. His side still hurt, despite the painkillers the doctor had given him that morning. She had checked in his mouth to see that he had swallowed them. She was good.
He wondered what her voice sounded like. In the days he'd been aboard the seaQuest he'd never heard her speak. When she tended him first, when he was sick, she had seemed serious and focussed, and he hadn't tried to speak to her. Now, sometimes, she flashed him a kind smile. Once, shortly after he had first regained consciousness, he had woken to find her watching him with sadness in her eyes. He wondered what she was sad about.
Sometimes he heard her voice in his dreams, but he never saw her face. Just like his mother. And all those hours alone in the cell, lying on his back and trying not to think, he focussed on the voice of his dreams, the voice that had merged with his mother's voice, waiting, wanting it to be the last thing he heard.
But death hadn't come. Something had gone wrong. And now he had been sitting alone, hands cuffed to the table, for what seemed like hours. He was waiting for the hammer blow to fall. He wondered if waiting was part of the torture. He concentrated on keeping his back straight, his expression blank, knowing they were watching him. But inside his stomach was twisted with fear. Waiting for death had been one thing – sometimes it seemed to him that that was all he had done his whole life – but this was quite another.
The door opened. He forced himself not to react, not to look up. He didn't want to know who it was.
A figure seated itself in his line of sight across the table. He knew the face, though he had seen it before only at rest. Awake, the man looked uneasy, though trying to smile. He placed a thick file on the table in front of him. Then he raised his head and looked Wolenczak directly in the eyes. For a moment, neither spoke. Then Robert Bridger nodded his head.
"Good morning Lucas," he said quietly.
Robert smiled, trying to cover his unease. His father hadn't been happy about him questioning the prisoner, wanting to do it himself, but Robert had convinced him that the boy would relate better to someone closer to his own age. He knew what he had to do – turn the boy against the Free Nations, tell him of his UEO heritage, persuade him to tell his secrets. It had sounded easy in the Ward Room – after all, they had all the evidence – and Robert had been pleased at a chance to be an active member of the crew, hoping he might prove himself to his crewmates, his father – even himself. But now, faced with a cold blue stare, an expressionless face that looked so different from how it had in Med Bay, Robert wondered if he shouldn't have left it to his father after all. He still felt something drawing him to the boy, something he couldn't explain. But that stare made him nervous.
He cleared his throat. "We haven't officially met," he said. "My name is Robert." He extended a hand, then realised that the other man's hands were cuffed to the table. Stupid, stupid, he thought. Gain the boy's confidence. Hard to gain someone else's confidence when your own was rapidly ebbing away. He leaned forward conspiratorially.
"Commander Ford's pretty pissed at you," he said, with what he hoped looked like a mischievous grin. It felt more like a grimace. "He's one of the youngest commanders in the fleet, you know. I think he's pretty proud of it. Or was."
The boy – Lucas – regarded him steadily. Not a flicker of emotion broke the mask on his face. Robert sighed, knowing he didn't have long. Westphalen was already livid about how long the boy had been kept sitting in the interrogation room while he argued with his father. He had to play his trump card.
"There's something I need to tell you," he said gently. He knew this one was going to require some tact. "It's about your parents. We've found out who they were." The ice in the boy's stare seemed suddenly to intensify. "This is our file on Lawrence Wolenczak, your father." He opened the file to the first page, where there was a picture of Wolenczak, and slid it over. The kid didn't even glance down. He kept his gaze trained on Robert. Robert swallowed. "He and your mother where murdered by the Alliance of Free Nations."
The looked-for reaction came so suddenly that Robert almost jumped out of his skin. The colour drained from the boy's face, except two spots of burning red in his cheeks, and his eyes flashed with sudden rage.
"That's a lie," he said, and though his voice was not loud it sounded like thunder in the stillness of the room. "My parents were killed by the UEO."
Robert sat for a moment, still startled by the boy's sudden animation. Before he had a chance to react, however, the shutters had slammed closed again, and the only traces of that moment of breakthrough were two spots of fading colour in the boy's cheeks and the clenched muscles of his jaw. But he had hit home. That was enough for Robert, for now at least. He stood to leave.
"I'll leave that here," he said kindly, gesturing at the file. "In case you want to read it."
And with that, he was gone.
Wolenczak was fuming. How dare they! How dare they claim the Alliance had killed his parents! He paced backwards and forwards in the narrow cell, not caring anymore that they were watching or even that the pain in his side was growing. He ground his teeth and clenched his fists and tried to keep his emotions in check as much as possible. How dare they.
In truth, he was angry at himself as much as them. After all, what had he expected from the damn UEO? Pain, that's what, he reminded himself. Interrogation. Not this. Funny how kind words and smooth lies stung worse than a dozen blows.
That's what they want, soldier. The thought came in Braithwaite's voice, like his inner pep-talks always did. They're smarter than you give them credit for. They knew where to hurt you. Now they've got a reaction from you, they're never going to stop needling. Wolenczak knew it was true. He should never have spoken to the kid, not once. But it had been so unexpected. Like they had known the one thing that kept him going every day in the war, in his life, and tried to rip it out from under his feet. Well they weren't going to succeed. Wolenczak forced himself to slow his pacing and draw deep, calming breaths. They seemed to think they were dealing with some kind of child. All the kindness, calling him 'Lucas' – no- one ever called him that! – but they were dead wrong if they thought that just because he was young he was going to be easy to crack.
By the time the doctor came in, Wolenczak was seated calmly on the bed, his mask back in place. The woman looked at him with kindly eyes, but he didn't return her gaze. No more giving in to their tricks. After she had given him his shot and disappeared, he allowed his shoulders to sag slightly. Roll on pain, he thought, feeling emotionally exhausted. Anything's got to be better than this.
The following day, Wolenczak felt stronger, more able to deal with things. He kept his gaze carefully averted when the doctor came in. She had sung to him in his dreams last night. If he didn't know better he'd swear the UEO were piping her into his head on purpose.
The wait in the interrogation room was shorter today. The interrogator was the younger Bridger once again. This time he was carrying a petri dish. "Good morning, Lucas," he said, and Wolenczak sneered inwardly. "Did you read the file?"
Wolenczak had not touched the file. He knew they knew that, since he had placed it in a prominent position in his cell. They weren't going to get him reading their propaganda that easily. He knew all about the techniques of brainwashing, had started to learn them before he could pilot an attack sub. No matter how much his fingers had itched, he hadn't given in.
The lieutenant slid the petri dish over the table to him. Wolenczak allowed himself to glance down briefly, without moving his head. "Do you know what that is?" the young man asked. Wolenczak didn't respond. Of course he knew, he'd designed the damn thing. Well, now he knew why he wasn't dead.
"It's an implant the ship's doctor removed from your body." Wolenczak forced down an impulse to twitch at the word 'doctor'. "It contained cyanide, and was designed so that it could be remotely activated after your capture to release the cyanide into your bloodstream." Bridger waited. "To kill you," he added.
Wolenczak wondered what the point of all this was. Maybe they were just trying to confirm that there was no escape. Death would not save him from their clutches, they had made sure of that. Well, he'd figured that out by now anyway: Braithwaite would have activated the implant long ago if he could have. But he supposed this meant that the Free Nations thought he was dead. He hoped they didn't become overconfident based on that assumption. He knew that everyone cracked under torture eventually – another titbit of knowledge from his early childhood – and though he was determined to hold out as long as he could, he was sure he would be no exception. At some point, the UEO would find about the Freedom's cloaking technology. He hoped Braithwaite was a long way away when they did. He remembered the captain's words to him: You may have just won us this war. Lost it, more like. He noticed that Bridger was looking anxious and wondered what he had expected. Trembling confessions? Begging for mercy? No, you'll have to work a little harder to get those, he thought grimly. To his surprise, the young man rose to his feet, picking up the petri dish.
"Well," he said, "I'll leave you to think about that for a while."
He left. Wolenczak watched him go, not sure whether to be relieved or afraid.