I don't own seaQuest or any of the characters. Goddamn it!
And the academy award for best reviewer goes to.... Diena, PhoenixTears80, ano, KatKnits, Zoe, lo, Pheniox-Skye, sara and pari106! It's the first nine- person tie in the history of the oscars! Congratulations!
Pro Patria Mori
Chapter 14
Lucas found himself humming as he scribbled numbers sitting on his bed in the brig. He found his mind splitting in two, half concentrating on the columns of sums, the other half listening in surprise to the odd noise he was making. It was somewhat tuneless, but recognisably similar to a piece Robert had played on his violin a few days back while visiting Lucas. The instrument had come up in conversation after Robert had asked Lucas how it felt when he was designing his inventions, and after he compared it to his own feeling when playing the violin, Lucas had to admit that he had never heard one played. He knew what they were, of course. In theory. So much of his experience existed in theory only....
But how did he know about your inventions?
Lucas tried to suppress Braithwaite's voice in his head. After all, he hadn't /told/ Robert about his skill with machines. But he hadn't been able to explain away the drawings that Robert had found one day in his quarters – in the brig he reminded himself – designs for a machine to translate the dolphin's sounds into human speech. He had been thinking about it ever since Robert had told him about the creature's ability to understand hand signals, and after requesting a pencil and pad of paper he had gone feverishly to work. It had just been something to keep his mind occupied at first, but after Robert had found the sketches and pages of – to him – incomprehensible computer code and equations, and begged for days to be allowed to take them to Hitchcock to see if they worked, he finally relented. After all, he reasoned, it wasn't exactly something that could be used for military purposes, was it? He even felt a little embarrassed at designing such a frivolous machine. But Robert seemed to be excited about it, and that was reward enough for Lucas.
After that Hitchcock had come to see him a couple of times to discuss the plans; he wasn't allowed to use the computers himself, of course, and so he had to explain carefully to her how to put each step into action. The design was still far from complete, but he knew it was getting there, and he found himself being infected by Robert's enthusiasm. Why? he thought. What could a dolphin possibly have to say to us? But he was excited nonetheless.
Hitchcock wasn't his only new visitor, either. Since that first poker night Krieg had been coming to see him frequently, and on days when Robert's duty prevented him from escorting Lucas on his trips outside the brig, Krieg would take over. Lucas liked the garrulous lieutenant; his endless chatter made him feel wanted.
Westphalen came too. The first time she had come out of pity, of that Lucas was sure. But she soon discovered his quick mind, and their mutual appreciation of science gave birth to many long and complex discussions. Lucas never tired of listening to her talk. The picture of his mother was stowed beneath his pillow, but when he closed his eyes to imagine her he no longer saw those staring, dead eyes, but Westphalen's warm brown ones.
The visits of the crew to the brig, along with his new invention, kept him occupied during the long hours when he was confined. He was only allowed out in the boat for an hour a day, and although Lucas was sure that Robert had begged and pleaded many times, Commander Ford would not budge on this issue. Once, the Commander himself had come to see him, eyeing him with a mixture of suspicion and dislike. He had asked him about the Free Nations cloaking device. Lucas, seated once more in the interrogation room where he had not been since the day Robert visited him in the middle of the night, had remained silent.
"Don't you understand?" Ford had asked. "We're not your enemies. Haven't we proved that to you?"
Lucas had looked around at his surroundings – the bleak, gunmetal grey walls, the orange jumpsuit, the ever present guard. "I don't know, Commander," he had said in a low voice. "This still looks a lot like a prison to me."
That was what he had said. But in reality, he had to remind himself daily that he was still a prisoner. He felt easier and freer than he had for as long as he could remember. He had no duties, and was able to spend all his free time designing his new machine – his vocorder. That was when he wasn't spending time with one or other of his small group of acquaintances. People didn't stare as much anymore when he walked down the corridors. There were still whispers behind his back, but he had grown so used to them that he hardly heard them anymore. He knew that some members of the senior crew distrusted and even disliked him. It was fairly clear that he still terrified O'Neill, and Ortiz, though friendly enough, didn't go out of his way to spend time with him. But he was content with what he had. He felt that this must be what peacetime was like: the carrot that had been held before him all his life: win this war and there will be peace.
Wolenczak, you must be pretty screwed up. Only you could live in a cell on the enemy's flagship in the middle of a war zone and call it peace.
All the same, it had been a while since he had thought about escaping. His life before seemed incomprehensibly bleak. He couldn't imagine why he would want to go back there. And, more importantly, if he ever thought of escape the first image that appeared in his head was that of Robert's disappointed face.
This won't go on for ever, you know. Soon you will have to make a choice: either tell them about the stealth system, or get thrown into a proper jail.
But if he told them about the system, they would let him go. And then what? What could he do, out there in the world, a murderer in his own confederation and a traitor in his adopted one? No-one would accept him. Hell, he wouldn't even accept himself. It didn't really matter to him who had killed his parents any more – governments were all as bad as each other. It was individuals who counted. He had no doubt that, should he fall into the hands of the UEO's security division he could expect nothing less than torture: nothing less than what he had expected when he had come aboard seaQuest, in fact. But he had been lucky. He had happened upon individuals who did not follow their government quite as blindly as some. He would not be lucky again. And although he could betray his government at a moment's notice, he could not betray the individuals it represented: Braithwaite, Simpson, Halloran, all his old colleagues aboard the Freedom, all the good men and women he had ever met in the Alliance of Free Nations.
And so, as always, he came back to the inevitable ending of this charade: one day, maybe tomorrow, they would take him away from all this and force the truth from him, unless he could escape. And then, there would be nothing left to live for.
But for today, at least, he would enjoy this semblance of happiness.
Bridger had a very odd feeling, as though, like some latter-day Rip van Winkle, he had woken up one morning to find that everything had changed. He overheard his senior staff mentioning the name "Lucas" more and more frequently in their conversations. Ortiz was short of money because "Lucas" had beaten him at poker. A week before, Hitchcock had come to him for permission to construct a machine based on a design that "Lucas" had created, to communicate with /his/ dolphin. Bridger had even seen the mysterious "Lucas" himself, from a distance, stalking the corridors of the ship in his bright orange outfit with security guard in tow. Funny, thought Bridger, this Lucas guy looks a hell of a lot like the man who tried to kill us all a few weeks back. And still hasn't done anything to prove he wouldn't do it again at a moment's notice.
These new tendencies were pretty worrying. Bridger had no doubt that the kid was smarter than he was letting on, and the designs for the dolphin machine had reminded him acutely that the prisoner was probably just as capable of manipulating the ship's systems as he was its crew. Not that the machine worked, and Bridger didn't believe it ever would, but all the same the kid was obviously no slouch in the brains department. At first he had allowed himself to be persuaded that, given the young man's age and his parentage, a policy of making him feel safe would bring the swiftest results. But all he saw was his crew fraternizing en masse with the enemy, being drawn in by him, letting down their guard, and none more so than his own son. And the kid still showed no signs of giving up the stealth technology.
How can I protect my crew, my son, from an enemy who seems to be their friend? he wondered. Sometimes he would wake at night sweating, seeing Robert's pale face with a gun pressed to his jaw. He tried to tell himself that his fear was irrational, that the crew were all grown adults. But he was responsible for them. And he couldn't let anything like that happen again.
Watching Robert become more confident in his post had been a gratifying experience for Bridger. God, the boy reminded him of Carol. One day he had looked around while on the bridge and seen Robert laughing with Ortiz about something, and the resemblance had taken his breath away, until he found himself sinking into his seat, unable to stand. He missed her so much. The burden of guilt he felt for the way she had died – alone, with only Robert for company – seemed to grow with every passing day. All the more reason he had to keep Robert safe now.
The boy's duties were too light; they weren't keeping him occupied, Bridger decided. That was why he had become so attached to this Wolenczak. Well, he knew a way that he could change that and allow the boy to take on a little more responsibility in one fell swoop. He smiled to himself as he put together his plan. Carol, our boy's going to be fine, he thought, raising his eyes towards the roof, and beyond it, far above the great weight of water that pressed down on them, the sky.
Bridger and Ford sat in the Ward Room. The XO had become a vital sounding- board for his captain since the beginning of the tour. Bridger appreciated the man's sound judgement and cool head in a crisis. Besides that, he was in charge of the prisoner's daily routine, so Bridger felt it only polite to discuss his plan with him first. "Have you spoken to our uninvited guest recently?" he asked.
Ford nodded. "Last week, as you requested."
"And how did he seem?"
Ford looked confused for a moment. "I don't follow, sir."
"It's a simple enough question," Bridger said. "Did he seem to you like a helpless child?"
Ford shook his head. "No, sir," he said firmly.
"Then how did he seem, commander?"
Ford thought for a moment, then sighed. "Every inch the soldier, sir."
Bridger nodded. "I appreciate your honesty, Jonathan. I know you don't like him."
"It's not that I don't like him sir, I don't even know him," Ford replied. "I just find it hard to trust him."
"Well, we could do with a few more like you round here," Bridger said grimly. "The rest of the crew seems to be demonstrating a... lack of caution in that area. I'm thinking of discontinuing his visits outside the brig."
Ford looked up. "Sir, I understand what you're saying, but do you really think that's a good idea?"
Bridger shook his head. "I will not have my people seeing him as their friend, Jonathan! It's too dangerous."
"I understand that, sir, but I think it might be too late," said Ford. "Cutting him off now might just gain him sympathy among the crew."
"Then what do you suggest?" asked Bridger. He knew Ford well enough by now to know that the commander had something in mind.
Ford thought for a moment, his hands steepled in front of him. Then he said, "Restrict him to leaving the brig during ship's daytime only. No more poker nights. And restrict the areas of the ship that he has access too – keep him out of the mess and the crew quarters. It'll be harder for him to have social access to the crew."
Bridger nodded slowly. "Well, we can certainly try that," he said.
Ford stood up to go, but turned when he reached the door. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"
"Granted," Bridger said, somewhat surprised.
"I understand that you don't trust this guy. Hell, I don't trust him myself. But I can't help thinking that Robert may be right: maybe getting him to trust /us/ is the way forward. He /is/ a UEO citizen, after all."
Bridger shook his head. "I can't take that risk, Jonathan. This is a warship, not a kindergarten."
Jonathan dropped his gaze. "I know, sir," he said. "But Robert's going to be disappointed."
"Don't worry," said Bridger, smiling in anticipation, "I'll give him something to keep him occupied."
And the academy award for best reviewer goes to.... Diena, PhoenixTears80, ano, KatKnits, Zoe, lo, Pheniox-Skye, sara and pari106! It's the first nine- person tie in the history of the oscars! Congratulations!
Pro Patria Mori
Chapter 14
Lucas found himself humming as he scribbled numbers sitting on his bed in the brig. He found his mind splitting in two, half concentrating on the columns of sums, the other half listening in surprise to the odd noise he was making. It was somewhat tuneless, but recognisably similar to a piece Robert had played on his violin a few days back while visiting Lucas. The instrument had come up in conversation after Robert had asked Lucas how it felt when he was designing his inventions, and after he compared it to his own feeling when playing the violin, Lucas had to admit that he had never heard one played. He knew what they were, of course. In theory. So much of his experience existed in theory only....
But how did he know about your inventions?
Lucas tried to suppress Braithwaite's voice in his head. After all, he hadn't /told/ Robert about his skill with machines. But he hadn't been able to explain away the drawings that Robert had found one day in his quarters – in the brig he reminded himself – designs for a machine to translate the dolphin's sounds into human speech. He had been thinking about it ever since Robert had told him about the creature's ability to understand hand signals, and after requesting a pencil and pad of paper he had gone feverishly to work. It had just been something to keep his mind occupied at first, but after Robert had found the sketches and pages of – to him – incomprehensible computer code and equations, and begged for days to be allowed to take them to Hitchcock to see if they worked, he finally relented. After all, he reasoned, it wasn't exactly something that could be used for military purposes, was it? He even felt a little embarrassed at designing such a frivolous machine. But Robert seemed to be excited about it, and that was reward enough for Lucas.
After that Hitchcock had come to see him a couple of times to discuss the plans; he wasn't allowed to use the computers himself, of course, and so he had to explain carefully to her how to put each step into action. The design was still far from complete, but he knew it was getting there, and he found himself being infected by Robert's enthusiasm. Why? he thought. What could a dolphin possibly have to say to us? But he was excited nonetheless.
Hitchcock wasn't his only new visitor, either. Since that first poker night Krieg had been coming to see him frequently, and on days when Robert's duty prevented him from escorting Lucas on his trips outside the brig, Krieg would take over. Lucas liked the garrulous lieutenant; his endless chatter made him feel wanted.
Westphalen came too. The first time she had come out of pity, of that Lucas was sure. But she soon discovered his quick mind, and their mutual appreciation of science gave birth to many long and complex discussions. Lucas never tired of listening to her talk. The picture of his mother was stowed beneath his pillow, but when he closed his eyes to imagine her he no longer saw those staring, dead eyes, but Westphalen's warm brown ones.
The visits of the crew to the brig, along with his new invention, kept him occupied during the long hours when he was confined. He was only allowed out in the boat for an hour a day, and although Lucas was sure that Robert had begged and pleaded many times, Commander Ford would not budge on this issue. Once, the Commander himself had come to see him, eyeing him with a mixture of suspicion and dislike. He had asked him about the Free Nations cloaking device. Lucas, seated once more in the interrogation room where he had not been since the day Robert visited him in the middle of the night, had remained silent.
"Don't you understand?" Ford had asked. "We're not your enemies. Haven't we proved that to you?"
Lucas had looked around at his surroundings – the bleak, gunmetal grey walls, the orange jumpsuit, the ever present guard. "I don't know, Commander," he had said in a low voice. "This still looks a lot like a prison to me."
That was what he had said. But in reality, he had to remind himself daily that he was still a prisoner. He felt easier and freer than he had for as long as he could remember. He had no duties, and was able to spend all his free time designing his new machine – his vocorder. That was when he wasn't spending time with one or other of his small group of acquaintances. People didn't stare as much anymore when he walked down the corridors. There were still whispers behind his back, but he had grown so used to them that he hardly heard them anymore. He knew that some members of the senior crew distrusted and even disliked him. It was fairly clear that he still terrified O'Neill, and Ortiz, though friendly enough, didn't go out of his way to spend time with him. But he was content with what he had. He felt that this must be what peacetime was like: the carrot that had been held before him all his life: win this war and there will be peace.
Wolenczak, you must be pretty screwed up. Only you could live in a cell on the enemy's flagship in the middle of a war zone and call it peace.
All the same, it had been a while since he had thought about escaping. His life before seemed incomprehensibly bleak. He couldn't imagine why he would want to go back there. And, more importantly, if he ever thought of escape the first image that appeared in his head was that of Robert's disappointed face.
This won't go on for ever, you know. Soon you will have to make a choice: either tell them about the stealth system, or get thrown into a proper jail.
But if he told them about the system, they would let him go. And then what? What could he do, out there in the world, a murderer in his own confederation and a traitor in his adopted one? No-one would accept him. Hell, he wouldn't even accept himself. It didn't really matter to him who had killed his parents any more – governments were all as bad as each other. It was individuals who counted. He had no doubt that, should he fall into the hands of the UEO's security division he could expect nothing less than torture: nothing less than what he had expected when he had come aboard seaQuest, in fact. But he had been lucky. He had happened upon individuals who did not follow their government quite as blindly as some. He would not be lucky again. And although he could betray his government at a moment's notice, he could not betray the individuals it represented: Braithwaite, Simpson, Halloran, all his old colleagues aboard the Freedom, all the good men and women he had ever met in the Alliance of Free Nations.
And so, as always, he came back to the inevitable ending of this charade: one day, maybe tomorrow, they would take him away from all this and force the truth from him, unless he could escape. And then, there would be nothing left to live for.
But for today, at least, he would enjoy this semblance of happiness.
Bridger had a very odd feeling, as though, like some latter-day Rip van Winkle, he had woken up one morning to find that everything had changed. He overheard his senior staff mentioning the name "Lucas" more and more frequently in their conversations. Ortiz was short of money because "Lucas" had beaten him at poker. A week before, Hitchcock had come to him for permission to construct a machine based on a design that "Lucas" had created, to communicate with /his/ dolphin. Bridger had even seen the mysterious "Lucas" himself, from a distance, stalking the corridors of the ship in his bright orange outfit with security guard in tow. Funny, thought Bridger, this Lucas guy looks a hell of a lot like the man who tried to kill us all a few weeks back. And still hasn't done anything to prove he wouldn't do it again at a moment's notice.
These new tendencies were pretty worrying. Bridger had no doubt that the kid was smarter than he was letting on, and the designs for the dolphin machine had reminded him acutely that the prisoner was probably just as capable of manipulating the ship's systems as he was its crew. Not that the machine worked, and Bridger didn't believe it ever would, but all the same the kid was obviously no slouch in the brains department. At first he had allowed himself to be persuaded that, given the young man's age and his parentage, a policy of making him feel safe would bring the swiftest results. But all he saw was his crew fraternizing en masse with the enemy, being drawn in by him, letting down their guard, and none more so than his own son. And the kid still showed no signs of giving up the stealth technology.
How can I protect my crew, my son, from an enemy who seems to be their friend? he wondered. Sometimes he would wake at night sweating, seeing Robert's pale face with a gun pressed to his jaw. He tried to tell himself that his fear was irrational, that the crew were all grown adults. But he was responsible for them. And he couldn't let anything like that happen again.
Watching Robert become more confident in his post had been a gratifying experience for Bridger. God, the boy reminded him of Carol. One day he had looked around while on the bridge and seen Robert laughing with Ortiz about something, and the resemblance had taken his breath away, until he found himself sinking into his seat, unable to stand. He missed her so much. The burden of guilt he felt for the way she had died – alone, with only Robert for company – seemed to grow with every passing day. All the more reason he had to keep Robert safe now.
The boy's duties were too light; they weren't keeping him occupied, Bridger decided. That was why he had become so attached to this Wolenczak. Well, he knew a way that he could change that and allow the boy to take on a little more responsibility in one fell swoop. He smiled to himself as he put together his plan. Carol, our boy's going to be fine, he thought, raising his eyes towards the roof, and beyond it, far above the great weight of water that pressed down on them, the sky.
Bridger and Ford sat in the Ward Room. The XO had become a vital sounding- board for his captain since the beginning of the tour. Bridger appreciated the man's sound judgement and cool head in a crisis. Besides that, he was in charge of the prisoner's daily routine, so Bridger felt it only polite to discuss his plan with him first. "Have you spoken to our uninvited guest recently?" he asked.
Ford nodded. "Last week, as you requested."
"And how did he seem?"
Ford looked confused for a moment. "I don't follow, sir."
"It's a simple enough question," Bridger said. "Did he seem to you like a helpless child?"
Ford shook his head. "No, sir," he said firmly.
"Then how did he seem, commander?"
Ford thought for a moment, then sighed. "Every inch the soldier, sir."
Bridger nodded. "I appreciate your honesty, Jonathan. I know you don't like him."
"It's not that I don't like him sir, I don't even know him," Ford replied. "I just find it hard to trust him."
"Well, we could do with a few more like you round here," Bridger said grimly. "The rest of the crew seems to be demonstrating a... lack of caution in that area. I'm thinking of discontinuing his visits outside the brig."
Ford looked up. "Sir, I understand what you're saying, but do you really think that's a good idea?"
Bridger shook his head. "I will not have my people seeing him as their friend, Jonathan! It's too dangerous."
"I understand that, sir, but I think it might be too late," said Ford. "Cutting him off now might just gain him sympathy among the crew."
"Then what do you suggest?" asked Bridger. He knew Ford well enough by now to know that the commander had something in mind.
Ford thought for a moment, his hands steepled in front of him. Then he said, "Restrict him to leaving the brig during ship's daytime only. No more poker nights. And restrict the areas of the ship that he has access too – keep him out of the mess and the crew quarters. It'll be harder for him to have social access to the crew."
Bridger nodded slowly. "Well, we can certainly try that," he said.
Ford stood up to go, but turned when he reached the door. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"
"Granted," Bridger said, somewhat surprised.
"I understand that you don't trust this guy. Hell, I don't trust him myself. But I can't help thinking that Robert may be right: maybe getting him to trust /us/ is the way forward. He /is/ a UEO citizen, after all."
Bridger shook his head. "I can't take that risk, Jonathan. This is a warship, not a kindergarten."
Jonathan dropped his gaze. "I know, sir," he said. "But Robert's going to be disappointed."
"Don't worry," said Bridger, smiling in anticipation, "I'll give him something to keep him occupied."