Disclaimer: see Chapter 1.
Many thanks to everyone who reviewed: Mariel3 (x2), Yury (x4), kas, kbandy, dreamofshadows, sara, Kiddo, pari106, Karel, Alexis Rose, dolphinology, Diena and KatKnits00.
Mariel3: Hey, I'm going as fast as I can ;). Don't worry, there's no way I'd just abandon this story...
Karel: Hee! You've seen through my evil ploy...
Kiddo: Heh. I had a feeling you wouldn't like this plot development...
So yeah, sorry about being a bit slow with the update this time, folks. I've had exams and then I've been travelling. Hope it was worth the wait ;).
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Cabin Fever
Chapter 9
On the bridge of the seaQuest there was an atmosphere of tense efficiency; crewmen went about their assigned tasks quietly, and without question. Something was going on, something bad enough to make the captain short-tempered and edgy, but none of them knew what it was, beyond the fact that it had something to do with O'Neill not answering his PAL. Although Miguel Ortiz knew that there could be any number of legitimate reasons for that, he trusted Bridger enough to be seriously worried about the wellbeing of his crewmate and friend. And Lucas, he reminded himself.
"How long?" Bridger asked, and although his voice was even Ortiz could hear the sharp edges beneath it.
Ford checked the display. "Twenty minutes, sir," he replied coolly, then stepped closer and said something in a low voice. Ortiz watched them, wondering if Ford was in on whatever the big secret was. Bridger was shaking his head, looking angry; Ford stepped back and resumed his position at parade rest in the centre of the bridge, his face impassive. Bridger glanced over, and Ortiz looked quickly down at his instruments, scanning the surrounding area automatically, though not really taking in the results.
Everything was weird. Well, yes, serial killings at your place of work were always going to be pretty weird, but there was more to it than that. Rumours had been circulating like wildfire since Bridger had lifted the lock-down after Hoyle's death; some said he had been murdered, others that he was the murderer. Ortiz thought the latter explanation pretty unlikely; he had played poker with Hoyle a few times, and hung out with him, he seemed totally normal. Not the serial-killer kind of normal, either, just white-bread, career-navy normal. But then, if he wasn't the killer, then why wasn't the ship still locked-down?
The rumours about Hoyle weren't the only ones going round: some crew members were whispering about vengeful spirits, transferred from the marine outpost to the seaQuest. Ortiz had to admit, there'd been something weird about the atmosphere in the boat even before the first murder; he'd lost count of the number of times over the last few days that he'd found himself looking over his shoulder nervously. It was really coming to something when the most rational-seeming explanation involved supernatural forces, he thought wryly.
But then, rationality didn't seem to be very relevant any more. Three people – people he had known, people he had liked – were dead, and the seaQuest was hurtling through the water at top speed because O'Neill and Lucas were on holiday in paradise and wouldn't pick up the phone. They were probably drunk in some bar somewhere, trying to pick up some local girls. Ortiz ignored the voice in his head that told him that O'Neill would never let Lucas go to a bar, and certainly not let him get drunk. That was the only explanation he was willing to countenance, because all the other possibilities made him feel nauseous.
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"So you're asking me to lie?"
Westphalen put her head in her hands. She felt like she hadn't had a decent night's sleep in years, and she was constantly aware of the gnawing sensation of fear in her stomach. She really wasn't up to dealing with this. "Just... don't say anything," she said, trying to keep her voice calm. "Not until we've had a chance to find out the full story."
Ryder raised his eyebrows, leaning back in his chair with a slight grin. "I hate to tell you this, but the story's looking pretty obvious from where I'm sitting."
Westphalen glared at him, disgusted with his flippancy, and he sat up straight, suddenly serious. "Look, I know you're trying to protect the kid," he said quietly. "And that's laudable. But you can't just pretend like nothing's going on. Everyone's going to work it out, sooner or later."
Westphalen shook her head. "There's no reason anyone has to know."
"You're kidding," Ryder said, but without rancour. "He's killed a man, maybe more than one now." Westphalen felt her stomach lurch, and he must have seen it in her face, because he leaned forward, looking sympathetic. "Look, it's totally against my ethical code to lie about something like this."
Westphalen felt the despair that she had been holding back begin to flood through her, until she realised that Ryder hadn't finished. "But..." he said, frowning. "But I'll try and stall them, at least until you get the kid back on the boat. But you've got to face up to the fact that you can't keep it secret forever."
Westphalen stared at him, thinking that she had never been so grateful to anyone before. Then her PAL chimed, and she grabbed it, stabbing at the buttons. "Westphalen," she said brusquely.
Bridger's reply was just as short. "Bring a med team and meet me in the shuttle bay in ten minutes."
Westphalen didn't even bother to answer, but was on her feet and out of the door in seconds, leaving Ryder to stare after her.
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"Do you see him?" Bridger asked. Ford looked down at the tracker in his hand, noted the flashing red dot.
"Yes, sir. He's near the beach."
Bridger nodded curtly and moved into the cockpit, presumably to harass the pilot. Ortiz shuffled a little closer to Ford. "Do you have any idea what's going on, Commander?"
Ford looked at him, stony-faced. "We're going to find O'Neill and Lucas," he said.
"Yeah, but..." Ortiz gestured at the weapon he had slung across his chest. "Tranquilizer guns?"
Ford's expression didn't change. "The captain is worried about the possibility of large animals."
Ortiz raised his eyebrows. "Oh, come on, sir. I'm no expert in zoology, but I'm pretty sure islands in the middle of thousands of miles of empty ocean don't generally have sabre-toothed tigers roaming around on them."
A muscle in Ford's jaw twitched. "Since when do you need explanations in order to be able to follow orders, soldier?"
Ortiz backed down immediately. So it's like that, is it, he thought, but all he said was, "Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir."
Ford nodded once, then went back to staring at the opposite wall. Ortiz watched him for a moment, wondering what was going on in his head. Man, this has been a weird day.
At that moment, there was grating noise as the shuttle struck land. Bridger was back in the body in an instant. "Everybody out," he said, and Ortiz jumped through the still-opening door into the knee-high surf, slinging his gun over his shoulder and heading to where the shuttle's lights illuminated white sand. The sky overhead was studded with millions of tiny points of light, and the air was warm and richly scented. It seemed like paradise. But Ortiz suddenly felt cold.
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Ford moved quickly through the sparse, scrubby growth up the side of a low rise, following the blinking dot on his tracker. He was aware of Bridger and the others following anxiously behind him, but underneath that awareness was a fluttering unease, like a reflection that slid away from him every time he tried to pin it down. The hairs on the back of his neck had been prickling ever since he stepped onto the beach, and now the feeling was spreading up onto his scalp. Shadows flickered at the edges of his vision, but he knew, without turning to look, that there was nothing there. Although he could see the dark edge of a tropical forest less than half a mile inland, there was no sound of birds or insects in the air, and as he climbed even the rushing of the surf seemed to become dimmer and further away, until he could hear nothing but his own harsh breathing. The very air seemed to crackle with danger, and Ford realised he was clenching his jaw so hard that his teeth hurt. Swallowing, he concentrated on ignoring the dancing shadows, and then he looked up to see the silhouette of a car on the crest of the hill.
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There were three of them, in the car. O'Neill in the front, Lucas and another teenager in the back. They all seemed to be asleep, and Ford leaned over and shook O'Neill by the shoulder, finding it hard to think straight now through the silence that seemed to be invading his head, thinking only that they needed to get out of there as quickly as possible. O'Neill's head lolled, and the moonlight glinted off a trail of white foam that led from the corner of his mouth down to his chin. Ford swallowed hard, and went to check the other man's pulse, only to feel a hand on his arm, restraining him. He turned, surprised, to see Doctor Westphalen behind him, her dark eyes huge in the dimness. "Don't," she mouthed, and Ford wondered why she was whispering. She said something else that Ford couldn't hear, and then pulled a pair of gloves out of her pocket and thrust them into his hands, pushing past him towards the car. Ford saw that she had gloves on, too. He wondered vaguely what that was all about.
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Bridger had never been so sorry to be right as he was when he arrived at the car where Westphalen was already busily directing orderlies. He grabbed her arm, unable to articulate the question that he feared the answer to; she, however, understood perfectly. "They're all alive," she said, and he felt his knees turn to water in relief. "But we need to get them back to the seaQuest as quickly as possible," she added.
Bridger nodded, trying desperately to fight down the urge to simply sit on the ground and weep. "What happened?" he asked thickly.
Westphalen glanced behind her. "I'm pretty sure they were poisoned," she said quietly, with a worried frown. "That makes treatment very difficult, since I have no idea what poison was used. But Lu-... but the perpetrator must have taken the poison from the seaQuest's supplies, so we should be able to find out once we get there."
Behind them, an orderly opened the back door of the car, and Bridger dived forward to catch Lucas as he slumped out. Gently laying the boy down onto the waiting stretcher laid out on the sandy soil, Bridger felt fear begin to rise once more inside him. He had rescued Lucas and O'Neill, but now there was nothing more he could do. He felt useless and frustrated as he watched the med team bustling around the three figures. He thrust his fists into his pockets, and took a step back, colliding with someone. He turned to see Commander Ford looking at him blankly.
"Are you OK, Jonathan?" Bridger asked, concerned at the vacant expression on his XO's face.
Ford seemed to be looking straight through him, but then his eyes focussed. "Why is everyone whispering?" he asked, his voice overly loud.
Bridger stared at him. "I don't know what you mean."
An exasperated expression crossed Ford's face, and he put his hands up to his ears. "I can't hear you!" he shouted, and Bridger stepped back, taken aback by the vehemence of his words. His surprise was only momentary, though, and he quickly stepped forward again and grabbed Ford by the shoulders, forcing him to return his gaze.
"Your mind's playing tricks on you, Commander," he said sharply. "Snap out of it. That's an order."
Ford blinked, then shook his head as if trying to rid himself of some unpleasant sensation. His eyes cleared, and he frowned. "Captain," he said, in careful, even tones, "what the Hell's going on around here?"
Bridger looked back at the three stretchers, the med team moving like ghosts around them, and remembered Levin's dead eyes and the horror on Lucas' bloodstained face. "I don't know, Commander," he said grimly. "But it has got to stop."