========================================================================== TROUBLE IN PARADISE Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie ========================================================================== Timeline: After "SeaQuest 2032" (after 3rd season) Author's E-Mail: bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu ========================================================================== AUTHOR'S NOTES: Disclaimer: The following story belongs to Rachel Brody and Melissa Beattie. Duplication is _strictly prohibited_ without their permission. For the sake of sanity, please refrain from posting or sending this to others without their permission. Send Questions, comments, and constructive critiscism to: bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu ========================================================================== ======================== PART 0 - PROLOGUE ============================== Introduction: This story takes place after "Weapons of War". The story is set up, to some degree, in "Fusion", "Kaos Theory", and "Cost of Living", which are also by Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie. "Trouble in Paradise" (part I) By Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Prologue of 24 *** So proud was he to die It made us all ashamed That what we cherished, so unknown To his desire seemed. So satisfied to go Where none of us should be, Immediately, that anguish stooped Almost to jealousy. --Adapted from Emily Dickenson *** Prologue: He was on _seaQuest_. He didn't know how. He didn't know why. Then he saw the torpedo casing. He remembered. He looked down, but there was no ragged hole. No blood. No bone. No life. He was dead. But then how could he be here? "Damn you, Brody. I'm gonna miss you." His head jerked up. Why did that voice sound so familiar? "J.J.?" She didn't so much as glance at him, but he saw a tear slip down her cheek and splatter against the cold, hard casing of a torpedo. All at once, he realized what was going on. His funeral. Brody watched, invisible to the others, as his friends filed into the bay, in twos and threes. It was an odd sensation. He couldn't sense the thoughts of his friends any more than he could when he was alive. But he could "hear" them speak, and he could "see" them standing there, clustered around the torpedo. He had a sneaking suspicion that he knew what was in that torpedo. And it sure as hell wasn't a warhead. He saw Lonnie come in. Jon was half-supporting her. Brody could tell that Lonnie had been crying for a long time. His heart ached for her. Lucas followed almost immediately, his normally azure eyes red and raw. He walked up to Lonnie and Jon, touched her arm. She forced a sad smile for him, but tears filled her velvet-brown eyes. Tony arrived, Dagwood in tow. They walked to Lucas, and Brody drifted towards them to try and hear their conversation-- such as it was-- better. "Jonathan," Lonnie whispered, slight anger permeating her sorrow, "How could this have happened? It's-- It's-- It's wrong! Jim saved my life! And his reward was..." She gestured to the casing. "_This_?" "I know," Jon said as he embraced her. "Believe me, I know." He released her as Hudson took the podium. The bosun's whistle sounded, and after a few seconds' pause, the captain began. "We are gathered here today to pay our respects to our honored dead. One of the most difficult things about being a captain is when you lose someone under your command. One thing that you always ask yourself is: `Why?' We've managed to explore the depths of the ocean, yet we still cannot answer that one, simple question." As Hudson paused for breath, Brody turned and saw that Lucas had started crying. He reached over to try and comfort the grief-stricken boy, but to his shock found that his arm passed right through Lucas-- without so much as a ripple. Brody stared at his traitorous limb. He realized the irony of his situation at once. While he could watch his friends and be comforted, he was unable to comfort them. It wrenched Brody's heart to see Lucas sob like that. "Shh," Tony whispered, slipping an arm around the younger man's shoulders. "It's okay, Lucas. Go ahead and cry." Tony's own cheeks were tear-streaked. "Thanks," Lucas whispered back shakily. Although Hudson had to have noticed the effect his words had on the teen, he resumed speaking as though nothing had happened. Whether that was because he didn't notice, didn't care, or was trying to distance himself, Brody didn't know. He didn't want to. "Even though I'd only known Lieutenant Brody for a few months, he was one of the most promising young officers I've ever had the honor of serving with, and the impression he left on me, although brief, is a vivid one. We were fortunate that he let us share his life for a while." At that point, Lonnie completely broke down. She collapsed against Jon's chest, and he held her close. To Brody's amazement, tears started to fall from Jon's eyes as well. "Lieutenant Brody was well-known and well-liked by the crew- -myself included. He was a caring man, always willing to lend a hand. He never complained when the going got rough. Though on the surface he may have seemed arrogant, the depth of feeling that he exhibited when he allowed it was vast. He was strong- willed, and was able to stand up to any pressure. He was a fierce fighter, yet merciful. "Not having known him as long or as well as some other members of the crew, I know that nothing I say here will be enough to soothe the pain that we all are feeling." Hudson paused. At first, Brody thought it was only to take a breath, but when several seconds passed without a word, even though Hudson tried to speak, he realized that wasn't the case. A single tear slipped down Hudson's cheek. Brody stared, shocked. Although he and Hudson had never _not_ gotten along, he hadn't thought that anyone-- not even J.J., who Hudson had known for years-- could evoke that kind of response from the seemingly detached captain. After several silent seconds, Hudson cleared his throat and continued. His eyes were still shining, but his voice was steady--barely. "I can't say that I know how all of you feel, because I myself was never close enough to the lieutenant to share the kind of bonds that held you together as a crew. All I can say is that you're fortunate to have the memories that you do. As long as we carry Lieutenant Brody's courage and affection in our hearts, we will never truly lose him." Nearly silent footsteps sounded from the back of the room. No one seemed to notice, except for Brody. He turned to see wthe first emotion that Brody had seen him exhibit throughout the entire ceremony. He knew that Tim was the type of person to repress his emotions, sometimes too far. For a moment, Brody longed to be psychic, so that he could make sure , J.J. followed Tim out. She looked almost as angry as he did disgusted. Hudson was silent for several seconds, as confused as everyone else. "Thank you," he said unsurely as he stepped down from the podium. Tim continued walking away in silence, his face now unreadable. Brody tried to say something more, but suddenly, a force pulled at him. *What the hell?* The image of the cords began to distort. At once Brody realized what was happening. "No!" he cried bitterly. There was so much he wanted, _needed_ to say. To Lonnie, to Tim, to everyone. But he was out of time. No more time. There was only ehim to a stop. "What the hell do you think you're doing?!?" she shouted, not caring if the whole ship could hear. "Brody was one of your best friends!" He shrugged her off, his eyes cold, yet somehow haunted. "Goddammit, O'Neill,, and Captain Hudson's breaking down in front of the _crew_-- and he'd only been friends with Brody for--" "How can you say that?" he demanded, the outrage of his voice forcing her to take a step back. "You heard what he said. He didn't even know Jim! How could he have the nerve to get up there and insult his memory with platitudes? If Captain Bridger had would have meant something." He paused, as though a new thought was occurring to him. "In fact," he continued, "if Captain Bridger had been here, Jim wouldn't be--" The flat of Fredricks' hand impacting with O'Neill's cheek was barely enough to drown out the final worr head to blame!" O'Neill didn't respond. He just stood there, expressionless. Fredricks shook her head in disgust. "_You heartless bastard_," she hissed at him. She turned her back on him and stormed away. "Didn't shed _one_ tear," she muttered as she lefy. Hudson's speech had been too perfect. Too neat, clean, tidy-around-the-edges perfect. It was the same speech he'd heard half-a-dozen times before, when other officers-- other _friends_-- had died. He ripped his wire-rimmed glasses off his face and hurled them across the room. They hit a wall and clattered to the floor by his bed. Itwhere he would step on them. He raised his hand to his eyes, wiping swiftly before remembering that there weren't any tears for him to brush away. He hadn't shed a single tear. When he shl see their tear-streaked faces. Lonnie's. Lucas'. Jonathan's. Everyone. Even Hudson, the one who'd delivered the same, chings that had happened before the funeral, too. The discussion the senior staff had the previous day, trying to decide on how to dispose of Jim's...remains. He hadn't left any instructions. That fact ahan saying that you expected to die? Jim used to joke about that: "It's tempting fate. Besides, nobody'll care about it." He cared. God, how he cared. Seeing Jim being slaughtered like that, right in front of them all, anson shove the shuttle into high gear, pray that his absence from his friend's side wouldn't matter-- that there would be time for talking later... But there hadn't been time. He had been refused from Jim's bedside, only able to sit in his quarters and wonder, emotionlessly, when he'd be able to haul off at Brody for doing such a goddamned dumb-ass thing. He still couldn't bands to his ears in a futile attempt to block out the auditory delusions. But it didn't work. All he could hear was the shot. And Jim falling to the deck. And Lonnie's scream. And Hudson urging them on, acting like he didn't give a damn. And then, having the nerve to act like he did. Giving a speech that way torpedo casing-- take him on his final journey, into the depths of the black water that surrounded _seaQuest_. He hadn't even done his friend the service of staying for the entire service. What kind of a person was he? TO BE CONTINUED... Copyright 1996 Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie =========================== PART 1 ===================================== Disclaimer: The following story belongs to Rachel Brody and Melissa Beattie. Duplication is _strictly prohibited_ without their permission. For the sake of sanity, please refrain from posting or sending this to others without their permission. Send Questions, comments, and constructive criticism to: bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Introduction: This story takes place after "Weapons of War". The story is set up, to some degree, in "Fusion", "Kaos Theory", and "Cost of Living", which are also by Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie. Bear with me until about Chapter Four-- setting up a good story is never that easy. ========================================================================== "Trouble in Paradise" (part I) By Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Part 1 of 24 *** "May You Live in interesting times." -Ancient Chinese Curse *** Chapter 1: TEMPE UNIVERSITY, ARIZONA The time was somewhere past two a.m. Several meters away, an artificial coffee maker was working overtime-- much like the solitary figure hunching over the table in the center of the room. Mark Murphy figured that he must have gone through several pots of the stuff that the machine was chugging out at record speed. It wasn't that he liked it-- it's taste was somewhere between activated sludge and...well, there wasn't anything else that horrible. But the caffeine content was a sizable amount higher than normal synthetic coffee, enough so that he'd be able to stay up as long as he kept drinking it. And he planned on drinking it until he had finished his work. His work, in the form of the 148 remaining final exams of the 213 students to whom he taught general molecular genetics, was scattered sloppily across the table at which he was sitting, and it was giving him a headache. He had never heard so many flawed explanations in his life. These kids were murdering his beloved Aronica theories, even if they were the top 213 students taking the class. Of course, considering that he was a part-time professor at a fifth rate university, that wasn't saying much. But he had been working at Tempe ever since he had graduated from Stanford, 12 years ago. After seeing colleagues being slowly pushed out of their fields, he was grateful for the job, if not the audience. His door opened a crack, then the rest of the way, and a bleary-eyed young lady stepped into the office. He looked up in alarm and flipped over the key and the exams that were face-up. He was prepared to give a sound tongue-lashing to the student that had dared to disturb him in his office without knocking or making an appointment-- and at 2:15 a.m., no less. But his anger faded quickly when he realized who it was. "Cait, don't do that." Cait Parisi, his associate, colleague, and sometimes-more- than-friend, shrugged as she took several steps into the room. "Think I was one of the med students?" There was a twinkle in her eye that had no business being there this early in the morning. "Maybe." He let his eyes close for a few seconds, then forced them open again. It felt like there were grains of sand rubbing against the interior of his eyelids. *I need some rest.* "You need some rest." He smiled, half annoyed with her. "Thanks, mommy." She grinned. "Well, you know what I've always said-- you're the type who needs mothering." "What type would that be?" he asked. "The adorably innocent type." She grinned as she moved towards him, standing behind him and gently massaging his shoulders. Her brow knitted as she increased the pressure. "You're so tight." He smiled, feeling punchy. He really needed some rest. "I know. It's the classes-- and the kids." He gestured towards the coffee pot. "Have some?" "Is it real?" "At over three hundred dollars per ounce? I don't think so." With the amount that the university could afford to pay him, he was lucky to have enough for the synthetic stuff. She didn't seem to mind as she filled an oversized mug. She took a quick sip and slid into the chair across the table. She reached out and picked up one of the tests. He didn't notice that she was browsing over it until she chuckled. "Adenine and Cytosine as a normal bonding pair? That's insane." He nodded. "It might be, but you aren't allowed to look at it. You know campus rules." She left her mug on the table as she stood and assumed a posture and tone of voice not unlike the Dean's. "No one shall see an uncorrected exam excepting only the Professor of that course and the student him and\or herself. All tests and\or exams will be corrected and grades submitted within one hundred sixty-eight hours of that test and\or exam's being taken by students--" She had to break off, he was laughing so hard. Cait could always be counted on to bring a smile to his face. "Exactly," he told her once he managed to get ahold of himself. "And by my calculations, I've got just under twelve hours to bring these back." She shook her head. "Uh-uh. You gave the exam this on Tuesday. You've got over three days to turn it in." "I'm busy on Monday, and I'm sure as hell not working on the weekend." She slowly sank back into her seat. "It's your own fault. You're too damn soft on those kids. Why not make 'em take a Friday exam, like I do?" He shook his head. "No way. After I managed to pass Calc III, I swore I'd never do that to a student as long as I lived. Cross was always the teacher everyone hated-- and it was because of those Friday exams." Cait appeared unconvinced. "I doubt that." He looked up from the current stack of papers, letting his overused red pen click impatiently against the top one. "So, are you going to help, or not?" She grinned as she plucked her own pen out from behind her ear. "With the two-in-the-morning-God-I'm-so-exhausted handwriting, right?" He nodded, and her grin widened. "Wouldn't miss it for the world." The silence of the next hours was interrupted only by Cait's voice as she asked for help with questions that called for a judgement call on Murphy's part, or by the occasional refilling of the coffee machine. By nine, there were only four tests left. They were done within the hour. Murphy stood, ready to collapse. He had been correcting the same fifty questions for close to fourteen hours. He flashed a grin towards Cait as she walked towards the door. "Thanks." "Never coulda done it without me." "Your modesty is astounding." "I know." And with that, she left. Murphy knew that he'd need to rely on his coffee for a few more hours, at least until he could get back to his apartment and sleep. But even as he was willing himself to stay awake, his eyes dropped shut and he fell into a deep, undisturbed sleep. The next thing he knew, someone was shaking him awake. "Professor, wake up. You've got a phone call." He shook himself awake, wiping his face. He hadn't shaved in twenty-four hours, and the stubble that covered his chin was a strong reminder of that. His mouth tasted like an old sock, and he knew that his eyes were probably bright red and bloodshot. "Who is it?" He was surprised at the scratchiness of his voice. He needed to start getting more sleep. His secretary shrugged. "Someone who says he knew you from Stanford." Murphy groggily shoved himself upwards from the table, and stumbled out of the small office, into the more spacious lab area. The phone was sitting receiver end up on his desk. He had to consciously wrap his fingers around it and hold it against his head in order to keep from dropping it. "Hello?" God, but he sounded awful. He wondered who the person on the other end could be. The last time he had heard from anyone from Stanford, aside from the occasional alumni newsletters that circulated every year or so, had been at the most recent in a lone string of boring class reunions. There had only been a few people who hadn't attended. One of Murphy's best friends had been one of them. Not that it had come as a surprise that Lucas hadn't been there. Why should this year have been any different from any of the other reunions? "Is this Professor Mark Murphy?" The voice on the other end of the line was one that Murphy could remember, if only vaguely, and he was already wincing at the "Professor" part. It was just a reminder that, unlike some of his classmates, who had gone on to do research in so many fields-- many becoming fabulously rich and snobby in the process- - he was teaching for a meager salary at a little state-funded university in Southern Arizona. "Yes." *Do I know you?* he wanted to ask. "Dr. Chris Malcom." Then Murphy realized why it had taken so long to place the voice. Malcom had taught a quarter-long class on disease theory. Mark had taken it mostly for kicks-- and because Samantha Martin, one of the sexiest med students he had ever laid eyes on, was majoring in pathology and looked up to Malcom like he was some kind of demigod. He hadn't really paid attention-- to Malcom, that was. He had been far too interested in Samantha's legs. That was how he had received his first and only failing grade during his four- year stay at Stanford. "Professor?" He sounded like a college student again. When Malcom had realized that he was intentionally blowing off the class, he had been infuriated. Mark had spent almost a week scared out of his wits to be within spitting distance of the professor. Now, on the other hand, he could see why his attitude had angered Malcom so much. Like the other day, when Alexis Petroski had-- His thoughts were interrupted when Malcom began talking. "Doctor, actually. I've been following your career for the past few months, and I'd like to know if you'd be interested in going into the private sector." "Huh?" He _really_ sounded like a kid again. Private Sector? As in "privately-funded-more-money-than-he-would-know- what-to-do-with-if-he-ever-got-the-chance-to-work-in-it" kind of Private Sector? "As you may or not know," and here, Malcom's voice took on a tone not unlike what he had used so many years ago with the hundred or so students that had taken his course, "I'm currently in the employ of Deon International." Murphy's mouth went dry-- or at least, more so. The old sock feeling still persisted. Deon Industries? That would be... The funding alone... "Cool." Cool? He was talking to someone who was working in the biggest corporation on the goddamned planet, and all he could say is "cool"? *Get a grip, Mark!* Malcom's tone of voice was somewhat amused. If Murphy closed his eyes, he could still see his old professor's expression. That was why he was trying desperately not to blink. "I'd like for you to join me for a few months." Murphy's eye darted around the room, frantically searching for a glass of water. The closest thing to it was a glass of room temperature milk. It had been out all night. But he was so thirsty that he didn't care. It was gone in record time. "M-me?" "Well I was asked to give Lawrence a referral, and..." Murphy was too stunned to hear the rest of Malcom's explanation. Only when he realized that there was no longer a stream of words flowing from the receiver did he speak. "I-- I...I don't know what to say." "Say yes." The tone of Malcom's voice made it an order. "I can't-- I mean, I've got tenure... I've got my students!" Before he had finished speaking, Murphy wondered what was going through his head. Luckily, Malcom had never been the type who was able to take "no" for an answer. "Think about it, Professor. I'll get back to you." Then, before Murphy had the chance to respond, Malcom hung up. Murphy was left with a dead phone in his hand, and a sinking feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. What if Malcom didn't "get back to him"? Had he lost his chance for success? *Damn, I hope not.* He sank down into the chair, completely oblivious to the fact that he had a class to teach in twenty minutes. *I'll do it*. He had been so relieved when Malcom had called him back-- even though it had woken him up at 1:00 a.m., that he hadn't even waited for a restatement of the question. The Dean hadn't been to happy with his request for a sabbatical, but he was entitled, after 12 years of steady work, to at least a year and a half. And by the time he had his request prepared, he had already decided that if it were refused, he would spit in Schafer's face and let him stew. Cait had been proud of him-- or at least, she had said so. Her words were still ringing in his ears. *"Have fun and drop me a line...I'll go nuts unless you send me E-mail every day."* He had forgotten to tell her that his mailbox was under temporary deactivation. He smiled fondly as he remembered the good-bye scene that had taken place at the airport. Too poor-- too cheap, really-- to get a car of his own, he had begged a ride off Cait and she had agreed. Of course, that meant that she had poked fun at him all the way to the airport. Deon International had chartered him his own private flight to their New York Headquarters. They had engaged in a brief but teary good-bye scene in front of the pilot and the stewardess-- why there was a stewardess on a one-person flight wasn't something that Murphy quite understood, but he wasn't about to complain-- and Cait had agreed to check in on his apartment a couple of times a week. Now, he was beginning to have an alarming number of second thoughts. Even though his departure had been okayed by the university, he felt as though he was somehow abandoning something important. His students? No, they had almost thrown a party when he'd announced his plans in last Wednesday's class. *An experiment?* That thought was closely followed by another. *Yeah right. What experiments?* He had turned off the stove that morning, and the lights would go out on their own. Cait would take care of his fish-- the only type of marine animal he had ever really been able to abide by. He wouldn't miss the daily grind. In fact, he'd probably be even more swamped once he arrived in New York. So what on Earth was his problem? As far as he could tell as he looked out the window, it was the distance to the ground. That hunch was backed up by the jolt of nausea that lurched in his stomach. He leaned back, wishing for something other than recycled air to breath. However, the scientific half of his brain reminded him, that was impossible. All of the air on the planet was recycled. Sometimes, the scientific half of his brain could be a pain in the ass. Murphy felt that something was finally right with the world. Actually, several somethings. His problem with airsickness had been solved when the stewardess had noticed the greenish tint of his skin. She had given him a couple of pills and a glass of water, and the nausea had subsided within a few minutes. His flight had been on time (something that he supposed wasn't so unusual with a private jet), and Lawrence Deon himself had been at the airport, along with Malcom, to pick him up in an ebony stretch limo. ("It's nothing special," Deon had told him as he'd gaped.) In fact, the only negative aspect of his visit had been the fact that he had been required to get one of those tatoos on his hand. It hadn't really hurt, because they had practically anesthetized his entire arm, but he hadn't liked the idea. However, it had been the only thing that Deon had really insisted on. As he looked over his new lab, aware of the fact that he'd never had the opportunity to work with equipment like this in his life, and probably never would again, he heard the door open behind him. He looked over his shoulder to see a tall, strawberry- blonde, blue-eyed man, 30 some-odd years old enter the room. He was wearing a business suit. As time went on, Murphy would learn that a business suit, with variations in color depending on his mood, was all that Dean Torville ever wore. He was also carrying a small, palm-sized pocket computer. Murphy had read about them- -top of the line. Murphy grinned. He was in too good of a mood not to. Even though he'd never seen this executive-type person before, he felt sociable. "Professor Murphy?" Even the man's failure to use the title "doctor" didn't annoy him. "Yeah." "Dean Torville." They shook hands briefly, and Murphy became acutely aware of the fact that his hands tended to sweat when he was nervous. "I trust that you have everything you'll need?" Murphy looked back at the room, biting his lower lip. "Actually, I'm not exactly sure..." He hated sounding this helpless, but no one had bothered to tell him what he'd be doing. When he told this to Torville, the man frowned and called something up on his computer. "Read this," was all that he said before he passed Murphy the computer and left in a flurry of activity. Murphy skimmed the screen quickly once before settling into a chair with a mug of coffee-- real coffee, this time-- to read it through. Deon apparently knew how to keep his employees happy. Now, Murphy's only worry was that he would get spoiled, working here in such a luxurious environment. He read the title again, and this time was going slowly enough to wonder at it: "Deon\Macronesian Viral Construction Team, Stage Two". TO BE CONTINUED... Copyright 1996 Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie =========================== PART 2 ===================================== Disclaimer: The following story belongs to Rachel Brody and Melissa Beattie. Duplication is _strictly prohibited_ without their permission. For the sake of sanity, please refrain from posting or sending this to others without their permission. Send Questions, comments, and constructive critiscism to: bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Introduction: This story takes place after "Weapons of War". The story is set up, to some degree, in "Fusion", "Kaos Theory", and "Cost of Living", which are also by Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie. Bear with me until about Chapter 4-- good stories take time to set up. "Trouble in Paradise" (part I) By Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Part 2 of 24 Chapter 2: THREE MONTHS LATER: _SEAQUEST DSV_ It had started out as a normal day. But beginning when Captain Hudson had announced the upcoming shore leave, Lonnie Henderson's life had been turned upside down. First and foremost, there was the issue of Jonathan. She had no idea about how she was going to tell him about her plans for the vacation, so to ease the strain, she had asked him to meet her for lunch. Like most of the other men she had dated, he was a lot easier to get along with when he was eating. However, now that they were sitting down, she began to have second thoughts. He didn't seem too inclined to bring up the shore leave, and she didn't want to start what was almost guaranteed to be an explosive conversation. After what seemed like an indeterminable amount of time, he finally stopped eating long enough to talk to her. "So, where do you think we should go?" Already expectantly waiting for the question, she had the pamphlet out in less than a second. "Take a look," she told him, remembering to smile and look like she didn't care one way or another. He took one look at it, and she could tell that he was barely able to stifle a laugh. That was okay. She had expected it wouldn't be easy to convince him. "I was serious." This was where negotiations got tricky. She had to manipulate him so that he would feel guilty enough to come with her, and kindle at least a passive interest in the idea. She let a mild pout grace her face. "So was I." He stared at her, seemingly shocked. *You lost your poker face. Strike one. Sorry Jonathan, but you don't stand a chance.* "Do you have a problem with Kiluea?" He looked uneasy as he pushed his plate, with a half-eaten sandwich on top of it, several centimeters away. "Not at all. I have nothing at all against volcanoes. Or bugs. Or lack of running water--" *Complaining. Strike two.* She frowned. "Did you have a better idea?" His enthusiasm rocketed when she asked him that. *Strike three. You're out.* "Actually, yes. A friend from High School opened a casino in Honolulu..." Her mouth dropped open. That wasn't what she had expected. "A casino? You'd rather go to a casino than to Kiluea? "Lonnie, it's a volcano." "Jonathan...a casino?" "Lonnie, it's got running water." Fine. That was it. She wasn't going to go any further with this idiotic idea. "It's shore leave. The name implies that it should be spent on the shore!" Ford sighed deeply. "Look, I just don't want to spend a week alone with you in the woods." She was so upset that she didn't even hear the note in his voice that said that she had hurt his feelings. "Who _would_ you like to spend the week with?" "That's not what I meant." "Then what did you mean?" "I don't want to spend a week in the woods." Ford didn't know why he always wound up defending himself in these arguments. It wasn't as if he had said anything to deserve it. "Alone, with me." Without thinking, he replied. "I'd love to spend a week alone." She stood, utter fury emanating from every pore in her body. "Fine. Enjoy it. I'll ask someone else to Kiluea." With that, she stormed off. He rose, calling after her. "Lonnie, wait!" He followed her out of the mess hall, and she was already halfway to the maglev car. "Come on! I didn't mean it!" She held the maglev for him. He didn't know why. He stepped in, and the door slid shut. "It'll be fun," he insisted. "Keith has been asking me to bring you out here ever since he--" The next thing he knew, she slapped him. A hot sting began on his face, and he instinctively reached up towards it. "Is that all you can think about? Your little gambling trip? What about our relationship?" He stood, shocked. "Look, Lonnie, I don't see why you're getting so bent out of shape over this. It's not as if you--" "Why am I so bent out of shape?" she asked, as though she was amazed that he would even think of asking the question. "I'm `bent out of shape' because you don't seem to care that I was planning on having a nice, romantic week with my boyfriend, and all he wants to do is go to a casino! How do think I feel, knowing that you'd rather play the slot machines than talk to me?" That was the last straw. Ford couldn't believe how selfish she was being. "Maybe this was a bad idea." "What?" she asked, her temper fading. "The Kiluea trip? The casino?" "Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of this _entire relationship_." Henderson took a step back, looking as though he had slapped her. "What?" "We aren't getting along. Maybe things have been going to fast. We need a break." Her demeanor changed, and she glared at him coldly. "Fine, _Commander_. I'll see you in a week." She turned to go, then stopped and looked back at him. "Unless we decide that our relationship isn't _working out_." * * * * * "Looks like trouble in paradise." Lucas watched with interest as Ford and Henderson stormed out of the nearly-empty mess hall, one after the other. He turned back to O'Neill. "I wonder what it's about this time." O'Neill sighed. This hadn't been the best of days for him either. First, Captain Hudson had demanded a full diagnostic of the communications equipment, then he had found out about this shore leave. A whole week in Hawaii, and he didn't have anything to do. He stared at the nineteen-year-old sitting across the table. "Speaking of paradise, did you have anything planned?" Maybe he'd be able to get an idea or two. "There's a great computer facility at Hilo..." His interest increasing, O'Neill nodded slowly. "Sounds interesting." Lucas nodded, and decided to elaborate. "It is. There's this new biochemical database-- they just installed it a day or two ago." "Do they have anything on the new viral translocation research?" When his query was met with a blank stare, he tried to justify it. "A friend from the Academy was working on the project." "I guess so." "Maybe I'll join you." Lucas nodded. That was fine with him. O'Neill wasn't always the most fun to be around, but at least he could carry on a decent conversation-- unlike some of the alternatives. As if in response to his unspoken comment, one of those less pleasant alternatives sat down next to him, with a thud. Lucas found himself staring at a very annoyed Commander Ford. Having seen the argument, he knew what had transpired-- at least, what had transpired in the mess hall. But knowing both Henderson and Ford reasonably well, he could guess at what had happened after they had left. "You look like you just lost a best friend." It was something that he normally wouldn't have said, but the opportunity to get in a dig at Commander Ford hadn't presented itself in a long time. His comment was rewarded with a glare. "What clued you in?" "What happened between you and Lonnie?" Lucas shot O'Neill a look. He had been planning to get at least a few more remarks out of the incident, and O'Neill's tendency to blurt out the obvious had ruined it. "Two words." Both Lucas and O'Neill waited to hear them. They weren't disappointed. "Volcano trip," said Ford, slowly and deliberatly. Oh, this was too easy. "You mean the one on Kiluea? I was thinking of going..." He let his voice trail off and looked thoughtful for a few seconds. "Maybe I'll ask her if she'd mind my coming too." Before Ford had the chance to boil over, O'Neill stepped in. "We're going to Hilo." Lucas could have dropped in a faint right then and there. *No Tim, you idiot!* The only thing that kept Lucas from shouting it out loud was that both Ford and O'Neill outranked him. "Great. Maybe I'll tag along." *Nonononononononononononono...* The syllable repeated itself in Lucas' mind over and over as he forced himself to smile and nod. He had one last card to play. "It's a computer facility, sir." Ford's mood fell like a bag of rocks. He laughed nervously, trying to cover it up. "Sounds like fun." Lucas watched as O'Neill began to realize what he had talked them into, and began backpedaling. "I hope you like biochemistry, because they've just set up this _fantastic_ new database..." *In other words, you'll hate it, don't bother, go to Honolulu and that casino that you and Henderson were screaming at each other about earlier. Just don't come with us!* Lucas couldn't keep the thought from bubbling up. He had gone on scientific trips with Ford before, and each had been less enjoyable than the previous. But Ford appeared unwilling-- or unable-- to accept defeat. "I took the course twice-- I must have enjoyed it." Lucas and O'Neill exchanged glances, each silently wondering if there was any way to get rid of Ford now that they had backed themselves into such an embarrassing situations. Ford, for his part, stood and left. TO BE CONTINUED... Copyright 1996 Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie =========================== PART 3 ===================================== Disclaimer: The following story belongs to Rachel Brody and Melissa Beattie. Duplication is _strictly prohibited_ without their permission. For the sake of sanity, please refrain from posting or sending this to others without their permission. Send Questions, comments, and constructive critiscism to: bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Introduction: This story takes place after "Weapons of War". The story is set up, to some degree, in "Fusion", "Kaos Theory", and "Cost of Living", which are also by Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie. Bear with me until Chapter 4. "Trouble in Paradise" (part I) By Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Part 3 of 24 Chapter 3: "You look ridiculous." Piccolo glanced down at his outfit. Bermuda shorts, "aloha" shirt... He was going to Hawaii, why not? "Don't knock it till you've tried it." The comment provoked a smile from Henderson. Not for the first time, Piccolo found himself reflecting on how lucky he was to have a friend like Lonnie. She was, aside from maybe Lucas, his best friend. He grinned in return. "I need a favor." Piccolo stared down, through his shaded sunglasses, at Henderson. "What kind of favor?" She was fidgeting, so he knew that this was going to be big. "Lonnie, I ain't doin' your laundry again." "That's not it." She stood up and took a step closer to him. After a deep inhalation, she shut her eyes and let it come out. "Will you go out with me?" Piccolo was in mid-toss, aiming a pair of socks at the suitcase on his bed. He froze, and the socks landed on the floor. "Say what?" She slumped back onto the bed, lying on her back and staring at the ceiling. "I want to make Jonathan jealous." As he resumed movement, she managed to insert herself directly in front of him. "Please?" "No can do. I've already got plans." *And they include avoiding lettin' the commander tear me limb from limb.* He didn't tell her that, though. It would have hurt her feelings. "With who?" She knew him too well He should have known better than to try and fool her. When he didn't answer within a few seconds, she sat up. "Thought so." "Nothin' against you," he told her, sitting besides her. She was sandwiched between him and the suitcase. "He'd kill me." Without his ever realizing that it had actually happened, she had suddenly wrapped herself around his neck. She was so close that he could feel her breath on his ear as she whispered, "Please?" He reached up and pulled his sunglasses off carefully, and folded them up, then tossed them on his desk. "How jealous were you thinkin'?" She pulled back immediately, and it was hard not to laugh. If he hadn't been sure of what her reaction was going to be, he never would have dared that line. "Not that jealous." He sighed in badly faked disappointment. "It was worth a try." She stood up and walked across the room, stopping and turning once she arrived at the door. "I'll look like an idiot! I already told him that I was going to have another date!" *And your inclination to stick your foot in your mouth is my problem?* "So what?" "So, if I don't--" "Lonnie, I don't think you get it, exactly. There's nothin' in this for me." "How do you know that?" "You said..." "Tell you what, Tony. If you do this for me, I'll make sure nobody finds out about something I'm _sure_ you'd rather stayed secret." She had that look on her face. It was the look that he knew meant that she was going to do something horribly unfair and he was going to wind up doing what she had asked him. But out of respect for "tradition", he went along. "Like what?" "Like telling Ensign Barratt about your involvement in the..." she paused, waited until he leaned forward, then continued. "Whipped Cream Incident." His eyes flew open, wide enough to fall out. "You wouldn't!" She stood and took a step towards the door, which he immediately blocked. He wasn't quite ready to let Emily Barratt find out about that. She'd eject him out of a torpedo tube if Lonnie told. "Do you really want to risk it?" Henderson's foot began to tap. *Yeah. Right. I'd just love for that Amazon to find out that I'm the one who--* he stopped in mid-thought when he realized what he must look like to Henderson. He stepped away from the door. "Did you have some place in mind?" She shrugged. "Well, I was--" "'Cause there's this casino in Honolulu..." She sighed and shook her head, seemingly reluctant. "Perfect." "Is that a note of reluctance I hear?" He couldn't resist. He should have. "Two hours. Launch bay." She turned and stalked away, slamming the door on her way out. He stooped to grab the almost-forgotten pair of socks up off the floor, and as he rose, he froze again and looked at the door. "How did she know about the whipped cream?" * * * * * "Cool shirt." Piccolo grinned. He knew that Lucas would appreciate it, even if Lonnie had thought it was ridiculous. He glanced over Lucas' outfit-- he was still in his uniform. "Thanks. You too." "Yeah, whatever." They turned when they heard footsteps coming from the adjoining corridor. O'Neill trudged in, dufflebag slung over shoulder. He walked over to Lucas, but Piccolo noticed that neither made a move towards shuttle. Knowing that even his company wouldn't be enough to keep them from leaving, he wondered why they weren't. "You guys waitin' for someone?" If looks could kill, O'Neill's glare would have been enough to make sure that Piccolo's ghost haunted the ship for years to come. "Yes. You too?" "Lieutenant Henderson and I are going to this place in Honolulu--" "You and Lieutenant Henderson?" Piccolo drew himself up. "Yeah. Lonnie and Commander Ford are _havin' problems_." "You think we haven't noticed?" O'Neill appeared about ready to pop. He rolled his eyes. "The Commander is going to `tag along' with Lucas and me on a trip to Hilo." "But he's not going to kill you two. That's the difference." Lucas shifted uncomfortably. "I'm sorry, Tony, but I've gotta ask you this: Why are you and she going out in the first place?" *She blackmailed me.* "She wants to make him jealous." "How jealous? Tony, Commander Ford'll--" He held out a silencing hand. "Don't worry. Not anywhere near that jealous." "Not that that's going to matter to the Commander." Lucas couldn't resist the chance to make Piccolo a little more apprehensive. "He'll kill you anyway." Just as Piccolo was about to cut him off with a bitingly sharp comeback, two more people entered the shuttle bay. Henderson and Ford hadn't made up. That was grossly obvious. Piccolo had been hoping that they would have. Given Ford's reaction the time he had caught Piccolo leaving Henderson's quarters after a tutoring session, Piccolo hadn't been looking forward to Ford's discovering just who Henderson was spending the week with. Having every bone in his body broken twice by the XO wasn't Piccolo's idea of a pleasant death. Henderson, for her part, seemed unruffled. She crossed the floor, and before Piccolo knew what was going on, her slim arms had wrapped themselves around his neck. She was so close that he caught a trace of her perfume. "I thought you said not this jealous," he whispered, keeping an eye on Ford, who was fuming only a few meters away. "I changed my mind." That was all she said before, with a flicker of a gaze towards Ford, she kissed him. Piccolo's first thought was that Ford would kill him. But that was quickly replaced by another. *God, she's a good kisser.* He immediately put that thought out of his mind, since he knew that his was the type of face that could be read like a book. "Gee, Tony, it's a good thing you've got those gills." *Yeah.* The instinctive reaction to Lucas' barb flew out of his head with Ford's glare. *And gee, Lucas, thanks for acting like such a pain-in-the-ass of a teenager.* The glare he shot at Lucas was comparable to the one that Ford had let fly a few seconds ago. But Lucas, ever used to being dumped on, shrugged and returned it with an innocent "what-me-worry" expression. Finally, his lips and Henderson's parted. She was slightly flushed, and he was slightly appreciative of that fact. "I'm _so_ glad you mentioned that casino, sweetie." He grinned at her, finally ready to throw himself into the act, and out of the corner of his mouth let one word fall. "Sweetie?" If Ford hadn't asked the same thing at the same second, he would have heard it. But while Piccolo was trying to be subtle, Ford was making no such attempt. "Isn't it funny how at first you don't want to go somewhere, but if the right person asks you, it's irresistible?" That was going a little too far. As much as Tony was enjoying himself-- _especially_ after that kiss-- he wasn't going to risk anything he didn't have to. "Hilarious. Let's go, Cupcake." This time, it was Henderson who was caught off-guard. "Cupcake?" Again, Ford missed out when he repeated it, only louder. And Lucas, ever waiting for the opportunity to put a CO to shame, grabbed the opportunity. He turned to O'Neill, the look on his face serious, with a hint of humor reflected in his clear blue eyes. "Isn't it annoying how some people seem to repeat everything?" Piccolo didn't like the direction this was taking. An "I've-got-your-girlfriend-for-the-week,-sort-of" conversation, he could take. But an "everybody-make-fun-of-the-commander-free- for-all" was a different story. He began wondering if staying behind was such a bad idea. After all, Lonnie was his best friend-- or one of them, at least. She'd never actually _tell_ Barratt about the... Nah. She had been bluffing. "Y'know, Lonnie, I just remembered; Captain Hudson--" One of the only things Piccolo disliked about Henderson was the fact that she could always tell when he was lying. This was one of those times, and she knew it. "But I heard about this great Ice Cream place. They put Whipped Cream _all over_ the sundaes." Tony Piccolo had never been one to resist a challenge. And under normal circumstances, he would have told Henderson exactly where she could stuff her ice cream sundaes. But Emily Barratt... He would rather face an angry Ford, any day. From the heat he could feel in his cheeks, he knew he was blushing. No, he decided as he saw Lucas straining to hold in laughter, he was strawberry red. He glanced to O'Neill for support, but the Lieutenant was staring at the floor as though he was looking for a lost contact lense. "Well, Cupcake, you know whipped cream and me...and you." He said it in a tone that could be interpreted in several ways-- and from the look of horror that crossed Ford's face, it was clear what way the Commander had chosen to take. "Whipped cream?" "Tony, did you hear something?" *Huh?* Where had that come from? "Never mind." She sighed in exasperation as he looked around in confusion. "It must have been a--" She glared in Ford's general direction "--blast of _hot air_." "Musta been." He realized what she was doing. He had done it with his "friends" in grade school. She was going to ignore Ford, except for snide remarks, to drive him insane. He had always liked the way that the game had made the other kids throw the first punch. He hated to be the one to start anything. He caught her eye, and they kissed again. This time though, he was expecting it, and he made a show out of it. *She is a _really_ good kisser. * * * * * "Lonnie, what the hell are you doing?" Ford had cracked. Piccolo grinned as they separated again, this time in a more orderly fashion than before. Henderson gave a resentful toss of her head before turning to Lucas. "Lucas, please explain to the _Commander_ that Tony and I are in _seventh heaven_. Hell has _nothing_ to do with it." Lucas turned towards Ford, and began to deliver the message. Piccolo laughed inwardly. That kid, pain-in-the-ass teenager though he might be, might actually have a chance at turning out okay. "You know, guys," said O'Neill, ever the peacemaker, "Hilo closes in four hours. We'd better get going." Ford looked like he was going to put up a fight, but O'Neill wasn't about to let that happened. As he and Lucas dragged Ford towards the shuttle, Piccolo made a mental note to send O'Neill a Christmas card. * * * * * Thump, thump, thump, pause. Piloting a shuttle was something that required precision, attention, and concentration. The pilot had to keep an eye out for debris, fish, thermoclimbs, and other potential disaster- causers. Lucas had been piloting shuttles, on and off, for only a few months. Thump, thump, thump, pause. The problem with shuttles was one that Lucas encountered in a lot of places. They were small. And in small places, pacing tended to prevent him from concentrating on his work. Thump, thump, thump, swish, pause. Commander Ford had been pacing back and forth ever since they had left _seaQuest_. Thump, thump, thump,-- This time, Ford stopped directly behind Lucas' chair, and stared down at the console. After a few seconds, he resumed his pacing. Thump, thump, thump, pause. Lucas had been watched in action before. He had been forced to deal with a lot of differing circumstances. But one thing that he absolutely, positively, _could not stand_ was pacing. "Commander, I can't concentrate with you rocking the boat." He tried to keep his voice even, but he knew that he was fighting a losing battle. Ford's ignoring him wasn't helping. "I don't think you want to find out what happens when I can't concentrate." Ford didn't seem to have heard. He kept pacing. Of course, Lucas supposed, it wasn't entirely Ford's fault. Tony and Lonnie had been deliberately baiting him. And it _had_ been fun to watch, especially Ford's reactions. He'd never known that Tony could act that well-- he'd seemed like he was enjoying himself. *Yeah, I bet _that_ was tough.* "Lucas," Ford's voice drew him out of his thoughts. "You were his roommate for a year. What could she possibly see in him?" For a moment, Lucas was tempted to tell Ford what Tony had told O'Neill and himself in the bay. But as he reflected for a moment, he realized that doing so would spoil everything. "Gills...a sense of humor--" It appeared that Ford hadn't been joking. "_I_ have a sense of humor." "A bad one." Ford walked towards O'Neill, ignoring the comment that Lucas had made. "Did you see how long they were..." *Who didn't?* "No, I didn't." Lucas knew that was ridiculous. Of course Tim had seen what Henderson and Piccolo had been doing. How could he not have? But Commander Ford didn't seem quite as convinced. "When was the last time you had your prescription checked?" He was referring, of course, to O'Neill's circular wire- rimmed glasses, even rarer now than they had been ten years ago-- when O'Neill's last check-up had been. "It's been too long." Lucas looked up sharply at Ford's statement. "Since what?" *Either since Tim had his last optometrist appointment, or the Commander is going to start letting us in on his personal life...* It wasn't a thought that Lucas enjoyed having. He hoped Ford was talking about the former. Ford, apparently, took Lucas' comment as pertaining to the latter. "None of your business." O'Neill finally put down the novel he had been reading. Lucas hadn't had a chance to ask him what it was about. "Maybe she's just trying to make you jealous." In Ford's current mood, the chances that he would believe what Tim had just said-- even though it was the truth-- were zero and nil. "She's not like that." Lucas stifled a laugh. Normally he would agree. Lonnie was usually straightforward with other people. But Piccolo had told them that she was intent on getting even with Ford. For what, Lucas wasn't exactly sure. But one thing was for certain. When Henderson wanted revenge, she didn't take it by halves. * * * * * *Green key, engine. The optimum cruising speed for a shuttle is 20 kph. I can push her to 35. Don't forget to check the sensors. Red key cuts the fuel. Check with the port before you dock...* Although Lucas had trouble piloting while Ford was pacing behind him, Piccolo had trouble piloting under the best of conditions. He had spent only 40 some-odd hours in a specter, and they handled easier than the larger shuttles. The lack of his craft's agility alone was enough to throw him off. He had debated asking for Henderson's assistance earlier, but had decided against it when he had realized that she wasn't in the best of moods. Frankly, neither was he. At first, he had been apprehensive about the prospects of going to Honolulu with her. That apprehension, he had noticed, had become much more acute when faced with the immediate threat of Ford's presence. Although he didn't really think that Ford would attack him, there was always the tiny voice in the back of his head that told him to worry. Lately, it had been very talkative. After a few minutes, he realized that he actually had the shuttle under pretty good control. Enough, at least, to be able to say something out loud without worrying too much about crashing into the ocean floor. "So, Cupcake--" "Drop it, Tony." He should have known better than to call her that in private. Truth was, however, he was annoyed. He didn't have anything against Lonnie, but that didn't mean that he wanted to spend his shore leave with her. *Besides,* he thought, *I'm piloting. It's not like she'll do anythin' to me as long as I'm in the driver's seat.* "I thought I was your `Sweetie'." Lucas was never going to let him live that down. Neither was Tim. She rolled her eyes before letting them sink back to her paperback horror novel. "This was a really bad idea." Piccolo couldn't believe that she was only getting that idea now. "I thought we were in seventh heaven." She had obviously had enough. She slammed her book on the countertop-like panel next to her seat. "Tony, if _anyone_ finds out about this, I'm going to _kill_ you." Piccolo didn't doubt that a bit. * * * * * The museum had been closed. The hotel had lost their reservations. Ford had decided that this had been the worst shore leave that he'd ever been on. "Too bad they were closed," Lucas said, disappointed. Ford gave the teen a rueful glare. Only a computer expert would think that not being able to spend hours behind a giant console was disappointing. O'Neill sighed. "I was sure that the hotel had confirmed our reservations." "Well," Ford said, "Guess not." Normally, Ford would've been the one to try to think of something else to do. But he was still so depressed over Lonnie, that all he wanted to do was find some bar and try to drink enough to drown her. "Want to go back to _seaQuest_?" O'Neill asked, almost sounding as though he _wanted_ to go back. As far as Ford was concerned, O'Neill really needed to get out more. "I don't think I could pilot us back," Lucas said. "I'm beat." Both Ford and O'Neill were expert pilots, whereas Lucas still needed polishing. Therefore, he'd been assigned as pilot. "We should go back to the shuttle, at least for the night," O'Neill said. "There are a couple of beds in the back." Ford decided that O'Neill had a point. The streets were narrow, poorly-lit, and full of alleys and dead-ends. It reminded him of Chicago's gangland. "Gee, I wonder who gets the chair up front," Lucas said sarcastically. "It goes with the rank," O'Neill responded with a smile. "To hear you talk, _everything_ goes with the rank." "Exactly." As O'Neill and Lucas continued their playful banter, Ford tuned them out, focusing on what was happening around them. As they passed one alley, Ford heard something. A _familiar_ something. The sound of a foot scraping the ground. "Did you hear something?" Ford asked as he stopped and returned to the mouth of the alley. O'Neill and Lucas followed him, looking confused. "No," O'Neill answered. A small object, about the size of a large egg, landed in the alley at Ford's feet. They all just looked down at it, unable to see it clearly in the dimness. "What was that?" Lucas asked. O'Neill shook his head. "No idea." Then the "egg" cracked open with a tiny "poof". A hissing sound emanated from it. *A gas grenade,* Ford realized, too late. He looked toward O'Neill and Lucas, trying to speak, to tell them to get out of there, but he felt himself collapse. His last sight was of Lucas and O'Neill falling. Then, the world faded to black. * * * * * When morning came, Piccolo knew he'd have a hell of a hangover. Or at least, he would have known that if he hadn't been to drunk to walk, see, or think straight. The room was spinning as fast as the roulette wheel had been, but since it had been doing that for hours, Piccolo didn't really mind. It felt sort of like a merry-go-round. He had always enjoyed merry-go-rounds. Especially when he was little. He remembered how once, when he'd been nine or ten years old, his mom had taken him to a carnival around the corner from their house. He'd saved his money for weeks, and bugged her about going for the same amount of time. If he concentrated hard enough, he could remember everything about that day. He didn't feel like concentrating. "I don't see him anywhere." The voice sounded far away, like somebody was calling him from underwater. He swiveled his head and waited for the world to catch up. "Huh?" he asked. The only person he could see was Lonnie. "Who?" He sounded like he was underwater, too. She hit his arm playfully, and he almost lost his grip on the glass he was holding-- barely. "Who do you think?" He thought hard. He knew who she meant, but the words were hard to get out of his mouth. He couldn't make it form the right ones, and by the time he had proved to himself that mind over matter actually worked, several seconds had gone by. "F'get him, Cupcake." He chuckled at the name. Lonnie glared at him, half in disgust, and sort of worried, too. "We got each other." He took another gulp of the brandy he'd had for the past few minutes, which had been preceded by another one, and laughed again. "How many drinks have you had?" He shrugged, and again the brandy almost spilled. "I dunno." She crossed her arms and frowned. "Tony..." She seemed as though she was going to get angry if he didn't answer, and for some reason he didn't want her to get angry. He racked his thoughts--what few of them there were that weren't indecipherably muddled--and finally picked a figure arbitrarily. "One or two..." She didn't seemed convinced. Maybe he was aiming too low. "Or three..." He drank the last few gulps in his glass and shrugged again. "Maybe four..." A waitress walked by with a tray of drinks. He grabbed one, not caring what it was, and replaced the full glass with his own now-empty one. "Make that five." Four plus one was five, right? "Or six." He might as well cover all his bases. He took a deep breath before downing half the glass in one gulp. It wasn't brandy. Damn. "I lost count an hour or two ago." Lonnie didn't seem nearly as amused by his state of mind as he was. She plucked the glass out of his hand and set it on a nearby table. As he waited for the right opportunity to get it back, she grabbed him by the shoulder and began to steer him towards the door. "I think you need some sleep." He shook his head. "I think I need `nother brandy." Whatever had been his last drink, it sure as hell hadn't helped anything. He needed something to get rid of the aftertaste. "Oh no you don't." She pushed him past the bar when he made a move as though to sit down, and he wondered how it was that she could suddenly push him around like this. "I've got to get you back to the room." "Are you gonna tuck me in?" He grinned when she stopped. Maybe now he'd be able to get something else to drink. "Yeah, right." She gave him one final push, and that was enough to carry him out of the door of the casino and into the lobby of the hotel. He didn't put up much of a fight, thanks to her promise. As she'd discovered-- and forgotten to tell him-- the casino and hotel were actually located in one building. He hadn't expected it to be that convenient. "Cool." He knew that he was grinning like nine kinds of an idiot. He was too tired and too drunk to care. They stepped into the elevator, and as it began to move, Piccolo felt his stomach lurch. Luckily, just as he thought he'd lose what little lunch he'd bother to have before his drinking spree, the elevator stopped and Lonnie propelled him off. As she keyed the pad that would unlock the hotel room they were sharing-- in case Ford decided to check up on her, she'd told him-- he leaned against the wall. When the door opened, she had to grab him by the arm and pull him into the room. "God, I'm exhausted," she said, yawning. "Mm-hm..." he slurred. She gestured towards the sofa. "See you in the morning." He looked up, surprised. "I ain't goin' to bed now-- it's too damn early!" he whined. But Henderson didn't seem sympathetic. "Of course you're going to bed-- you're plastered!" She shoved him towards the sofa. "Sleep. Now." It had the distinct tone of an order. Piccolo did _not_ feel like sleeping on the sofa, and they weren't on duty, so an order didn't mean a damned thing. He started to take his shirt off. "What the hell do you think you're doing?!?" Henderson sounded upset. "I'm goin' to bed. I ain't gonna sleep in my clothes." He lurched over to the bed, and half-fell into it. "C'mon, Lonnie," he beckoned, "It's really comfy." "I'm _not_ going to sleep with you!" "Why not, Cupcake?" he asked, grinning, "I don't bite...unless you ask me to." Oops. He hadn't meant to say that out loud-- not the last part, at least. Henderson laid down on the sofa and closed her eyes. "Go to sleep, Tony." "But--" "I _said_, go to _sleep_!" "Yes, ma'am!" He tried to salute, but he couldn't make his arm move properly. Then, the room started to spin. *Man,* he thought woozily, *this hasn't happened since that time in New Orleans, when I... when I... when...* His thoughts trailed off as he passed out. TO BE CONTINUED... Copyright 1996 Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie =========================== PART 4 ===================================== Disclaimer: The following story belongs to Rachel Brody and Melissa Beattie. Duplication is _strictly prohibited_ without their permission. For the sake of sanity, please refrain from posting or sending this to others without their permission. Send Questions, comments, and constructive criticism to: bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Introduction: This story takes place after "Weapons of War". The story is set up, to some degree, in "Fusion", "Kaos Theory", and "Cost of Living", which are also by Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie. This is the last chapter you have to bear with me on-- you oughta be hooked by the end. ;) "Trouble in Paradise" (part I) By Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Part 4 of 24 Chapter 4: Lucas awoke with a start. He was in an unfamiliar room, sprawled in a chair. As he blinked, he saw Ford beside him, also waking up. Before either had a chance to speak, though, the room's only door opened, and an unfamiliar, red-haired woman entered. A brunette followed her. Neither looked like the type Lucas wanted anything to do with. "Good morning, gentlemen," said the redhead, too politely. "I hope that the chloroform didn't affect you too badly." Chloroform? At first, Lucas was puzzled. Then he remembered. There had been a gas grenade, and the fumes had overcome the three of them before... *Three?!? * * * * * "Who are you," Ford was demanding, "What do you want, and what have you done with Lieutenant O'Neill?" "Commander," she said calmly. "Please, one question at a time. First of all," she continued, gesturing to herself, "I'm Kayla Montgomery, Regional Director of Section Seven." Lucas repressed a shudder. He didn't like to think about his first, and he'd hoped last, encounter with Section Seven. It was too painful. The door opened, and a third person, a male, entered. "These are my assistants," she continued, indicating both the male and the young woman who was with her, "Lieutenants Leanne Michaels, and Pete Chandler." Montgomery smiled. "And what we want is the two of you." Lucas didn't like the sound of that. The male lieutenant, Chandler, stepped slightly forward. "I've finished with O'Neill," he reported. "He's en route now. McKnight should be able to show him what he needs to know." Montgomery nodded and turned to Lucas. "Ensign Wolenczak, your contact will be Lieutenant Chandler." Lucas knew that he'd missed something. "Wait a second," he said in confusion. "Contact for what?" Michaels looked down at him, and he felt himself shrink from her cold brown eyes. "Your reports, any data you collect..." *Data?* Lucas wondered. *What data?* He glanced over at Ford, but the commander seemed as much in the dark as Lucas. Montgomery smiled, sending a chill down Lucas' spine. "Perhaps I should make myself clear. As of this moment, the two of you are working for Section Seven." * * * * * O'Neill looked down at the piece of paper in his hand, and compared it to the address on the door. Both said: 1107-B. Section Seven operative Kelsey McKnight's residence. O'Neill knocked on the door. After an anxious moment, the door opened, revealing a slim brunette. "Lieutenant O'Neill?" she asked. O'Neill nodded. "Yes. I--" "Not anymore," she said, cutting him off. "Your name is Doctor Steve Atkinson, biochemist for hire." *Huh? Run that by me again?* As he sifted through the shocking information that McKnight had imparted to him, one "fact", in particular, caught his attention. "Biochemist?!? But I don't know anything about biochemistry!" Another bit of data suddenly shouted for his attention. "And what do you mean, `biochemist for hire'?" McKnight sighed. "Leave everything to me." She reached behind her back and pulled out a plasma pistol. "Here," she said, pulling him into the apartment, "Take this." O'Neill just stared at the gun. "What's this for?" McKnight closed her eyes. "You're a mercenary scientist," she explained. "You're cold-blooded, ruthless, and always armed. You don't give up your gun without a fight. Not to anyone. And in a few days, you'll be working for Deon International." Once O'Neill's initial shock faded, he saw a major flaw in her plan. "Deon's not gonna let me into his company with a _gun_--" "Of course not," she snapped, again cutting him off. "You'll surrender it then. As for your biochemistry problem, we'll use a speed-learning course. It'll take a few days, then you'll go in. Until then..." She proffered the gun again, and this time, he accepted. "Get used to it," she continued. "Sleep with it." O'Neill just stared at her in shock. One false move in his sleep, and... "It's got a safety," she assured him, sounding mildly disgusted. "So relax. And remember, you're ruthless." It seemed that O'Neill had missed that. "Ruthless?" he asked incredulously. "As in..." He couldn't even find a word that expressed his uneasiness. "_Ruthless_?" He shook his head. "I can't be ruthless!" He'd never known anyone ruthless! He had no standard of comparison. "We're not talking about _you_," she snapped, exasperated. "We're talking about Dr. Atkinson. He's a hired gun." "But--" "Look," she said, again cutting him off, "It's your duty to go undercover as a mercenary scientist. If you can't be ruthless, then your cover is going to be blown. You'll be discovered and captured before you even find out what it is that you're supposed to be working on! And," McKnight paused significantly, "I do believe that you're familiar with the Macronesian penalty for espionage." Indeed, he was. Intimately. It took little effort for him to see, in his mind's eye, Henderson, manacled, on the platform, being led to her death, terrified, but trying desperately not to show it, then, seeing her struggling, as they'd come to her rescue, and then... He managed not to complete the sequence of events. While it took very little to start the flow of memories, it took a great effort to staunch it. He swallowed hard and nodded in affirmation. "Then," she continued, "Since I'm assuming that you don't have a death wish, we should get started, right?" O'Neill sighed in resignation as he followed McKnight further into her apartment. "Right." There had been several questions running through O'Neill's mind since his "briefing". "Lieutenant Chandler said that there were others involved..." When she didn't answer the unvoiced question, he voiced it. "Who are they?" "I'm the only one you need to know," she informed him. "The others are none of your concern." "Where are my shipmates?" O'Neill asked, not expecting an answer. "That's none of your concern, either." "I see," O'Neill said. He got the feeling that he'd be hearing that phrase a lot in the next few days. * * * * * Ford grimaced as he and Lucas lifted the large crate they had brought back from Hilo. "Are you sure we can pull this off?" Lucas' whisper was packed with concern. "We don't have a choice." They'd been given their orders, and they had to obey them. Still, Ford didn't relish the thought of carrying the crate for long. Fortunately, in the form of a Genetically Engineered Life Form, and alternate solution entered the bay. "Dagwood! C'mere a minute!" As the giant, multicolored GELF approached, Ford could see Lucas reddening. "Hello Commander. Hello Lucas." Sometimes, the sound of Dagwood's voice: slow, low, and at times almost drowsy, made Ford feel like falling asleep on his feet. Now, however, it was just a reminder of who Ford was about to entrust with the welfare of the mission. "Hi," Lucas said, sounding uncomfortable. Although Ford didn't blame him for his nervousness, he couldn't allow anyone to dwell on how unsure the young ensign seemed-- not even Dagwood. "Dagwood," he began, trying to mask his own nervousness, "Take this crate to ship's laundry. Dagwood nodded. His expression was blank. Ford couldn't be sure it Dagwood was responding in what he felt was the most appropriate manner, or if there was something the GELF didn't understand. But there were some things, this mission included, that Ford wasn't about to leave to chance. "And Dagwood, don't open it!" If anyone, even Dagwood, found out about what was inside that crate, he and Lucas would have a _lot_ of explaining to do. Dagwood nodded. "Mm-hm." For some reason, his reassurance only made Ford feel worse. "Got it?" The look on Dagwood's face was one of blank confusion. "Got what?" Ford shut his eyes. Sometimes, talking to Dagwood felt like talking to a brick wall. "Never mind," he sighed. "Just do it." "Mm...yes sir." The ease with which the GELF hefted the crate made Ford almost jealous. As Dagwood walked away, Ford glanced to Lucas. He could see his own unease mirrored in the teen's eyes. The hard part was just beginning. * * * * * Lucas had just typed the last code, the one that would disable _seaQuest_'s engines and weapons. He still wouldn't believe that Section Seven was forcing them into this, just to cover O'Neill's trail. He sighed and pulled out his PAL. "Commander Ford? Are you there?" "Finished?" Even over the com channel, Ford sounded impatient. "With the first two phases." Phase one had been making sure that a Stinger would be ready for launch, Phase two was the recently completed sabotage. "Phase three will begin in about three minutes. Give me twenty until phase four. I'll meet you near the access junction four-A and three-B." "I'm on my way," Ford said. "Twenty minutes." "Yes sir. I'll see you there." Lucas sighed as he deactivated the PAL. "I am _not_ looking forward to this," he muttered to himself as he walked out the door. * * * * * As Lucas pushed the laundry cart down the corridor, he was thankful that no one was around to look inside the large laundry bag it carried. When he reached the appropriate door, Lucas entered in a code and unlocked the room. Lucas pushed the bag inside. The quarters were neat and orderly, the antithesis of Lucas' own. He pulled the bag over to the computer and opened it, revealing it's contents. The body of Lieutenant J.G. Timothy O'Neill. It was a clone. Montgomery had assured him of that. Lucas knew that it had never lived. It was a shell, a husk, a facsimile of his friend. But that still didn't make what Lucas had to do any easier. He put the body in the chair, struggling it to make it remain upright. He finally succeeded. *Talk about dead weight,* Lucas thought ruefully. He stepped back slightly. "I hope this works." From the bag, he next pulled a high-powered plasma pistol. "This is like something out of a bad spy movie." Steeling himself, Lucas put the barrel of the gun to the back of O'Neill's-- *a clone's!*-- head. *Tim's safe. He's gone undercover!* Lucas reminded himself. He wondered if perhaps that wasn't an oxymoron. Lucas took a deep breath. Then he pulled the trigger. Blood poured-- gushed, really-- from the wound. Lucas had to jump back to avoid the spray. His stomach turned as a few drops of blood hit his clothes. As a kid, he'd always thought that being an intelligence agent was something he'd enjoy. If one thing was for sure, it was that he wasn't enjoying himself. He sighed again, and went to begin phase four. * * * * * It had occasionally been said that the day Jonathan Devin Ford lost control of his thoughts was the day Hell would freeze over. As he walked down a corridor on his way to meet Lucas, Ford found himself wondering if the damned wore snowshoes. He was having a hard time stopping himself from worrying. About the mission. About Macronesia. About Henderson. Ford shook his head to try and clear it. He couldn't afford second thoughts. He couldn't even afford _first_ thoughts. Ford tried desperately to break himself out of his reverie. He couldn't. Fortunately, the fact that Dagwood fell into step beside him accomplished what he himself couldn't. "Um...Commander Ford?" Ford turned and regarded the GELF. "Yes?" Dagwood looked nervous, Ford thought. "I took the crate to the laundry," Dagwood intoned. "I did not open it." "That's great, Dagwood," Ford said, distracted, as he stopped. He was at the right access junction, but where was Lucas? "When I went back to the laundry, I could not find it." Dagwood looked down at the deck. "I am sorry. I lost it." Ford barely noticed Dagwood's repentance. He was too concerned about where Lucas was. Could it be that he'd been unable to perform his duty? *Come on, Lucas,* Ford thought. *Think angry, evil thoughts...and pray this works.* Ford's "request" was granted as Lucas leapt out from a nearby corridor, gun drawn. Ford feigned surprise. "Are you cleared for that weapon, Ensign?" he asked, as scripted. "Not exactly," was Lucas' tailored response as he aimed the pistol at Ford. "Lucas," Dagwood asked, perplexed, "What are you doing?" "Take a wild guess." Lucas gestured with the gun. "Move away from the commander," he ordered. Dagwood just stood, staring at the boy. "You heard me," Lucas said angrily. "Do it." Dagwood blinked, then moved away slightly. He then made a break for the nearest wall intercom. Without even aiming, Lucas fired, and Dagwood collapsed, stunned. "Nice shot." "Gee, thanks," Lucas responded sarcastically. "We'd better get going. Ford half-grinned. "Anything you say..." he quipped. "...You've got the gun." Lucas glared at him for a moment. A _short_ moment, but just long enough for Ford to wonder if perhaps the teenager was a little _too_ into the part. But the quick grin Lucas flashed him at the end of the moment put an end to all of Ford's fears. Or, most of them, at least. * * * * * It had been an uneventful day. Captain Oliver Hudson was sitting in his chair, bored out of his mind. He half-wished for some crisis, just to pass the time. "Captain Hudson, sir?" The call from the Ensign who was working sensors while Wolenczak was one leave, Amy Shanahan, made Hudson look up. "I've just been notified of an unauthorized launch. It's one of the Stingers." It appeared that Hudson's wish would be fulfilled. "Hail the pilot," he ordered, wondering who it could be. "He's refusing contact, sir," reported Lieutenant Hanley, from communications. "Then open a channel." Hudson was starting to become annoyed. "Channel open, sir." "To the occupant of the Stinger, this is the captain. I am ordering you to return to the ship." Hudson knew orders like that seldom worked, but it was procedure. The main screen came to life, and Hudson saw his XO at the helm. *What the hell does Ford think he's doing?* Then the angle shifted slightly to show the gun being held on Ford. It was held by Ensign Lucas Wolenczak. "Like hell I will," Lucas said contemptuously. Hudson was in shock. What had gotten into the boy? "Excuse me?" he asked, too surprised to say anything else. "You heard me," the boy said, in what Hudson assumed weighs supposed to be a threatening tone. "The gun is loaded." It was becoming rapidly obvious that Hudson wasn't going to get anywhere by trying to talk to the ensign. So he tried a different approach. "Commander, explain the situation." "Sir, he--" Ford began, but stopped when Lucas pressed the gun to his temple. "Be quiet. He's fine...for the time being." The threat was evident. "Ensign Wolenczak, as per Navy regs, I an giving you a _direct order_ to return to the ship." Even as Hudson spoke, he knew that the order wouldn't be obeyed. "Oh," Wolenczak said, now taunting, "I'm _sooo_ scared." Hudson was starting to feel ticked off. "Shanahan, prepare to fire warning spread." "I don't think you want to do that," Lucas singsonged. "Why not?" Hudson was getting more infuriated by the second. "You'll see." Hudson had a sudden and intense desire to slap the smug grin off of the rogue ensign's face. "Ensign, you're leaving me with no other option." He turned to Shanahan, who had moved to Tactical for the moment. "Shanahan, fire spread." Lucas just smirked. Hudson waited for the weighs to streak across the Stinger's bow. It was several seconds before he realized that he was waiting for too long. "Sir," Shanahan said, sounding surprised, "The weapons have locked!" She looked up at him. "We're defenseless." "Hanley," Hudson said to the young lieutenant now handling helm _and_ communications, "Position us between the Stinger and the open sea." "Engines are down, sir," Hanley reported, "Helm is not responding." Hudson felt like he was about to explode. He glared back up at the screen. "You did this?!?" When Lucas spoke, his voice was ultra-calm. As well as condescending. "Captain, Captain, Captain," he scolded, "Your propensity for stating the obvious is staggering." Lucas turned to Ford. "Cut channel." When Ford didn't respond, Lucas pressed the gun tighter to Ford's temple. "Now!" They disappeared from the screen. * * * * * "How was that?" Lucas asked, dropping the gun on the floor. "If I didn't know better," Ford said, the trace of a smile on his face, "I'd think you were enjoying yourself." *Think again.* "What do you think the Captain thought?" The way Lucas had talked back to him, he'd probably be shot on sight if he ever set foot on _seaQuest_ again. The enormity of that "if" suddenly hit him, full force, and he took a deep breath. Ford just smiled. "You're going to have a hell of a time getting back on board." *He can afford to smile,* Lucas thought darkly. *He's just the hostage.* "I hope I'll have the chance." "Stop worrying," Ford soother. "I'm sure that Section Seven will clear things up." Lucas nodded, unconvinced, as Ford turned back to the console. That was the hardest thing he'd ever been forced to do. "It was only a clone, Lucas." Lucas looked up at Ford. He hadn't meant to say it out loud. He was it was a clone, and he knew it hadn't been alive. But it had still been hard. Ford smiled faintly. "Good thing Dagwood didn't look inside the crate." Lucas was floored. Here they were, headed into enemy territory, on a mission that might very well cost _both_ of them their lives, and Ford was cracking jokes?!? Ford caught his expression. "Come on, Lucas. You're not gonna get through this by losing your sense of humor." Quite frankly, Lucas didn't think that his sense of humor was going to matter one way or the other. * * * * * Ensign Amy Shanahan tucked a strand of dark blonde hair behind her ear as she tried to come up with a course projection for the rogue Stinger. Finally, the computer, still suffering from the effects of Wolenczak's sabotage, spat out an answer. "Sir," she reported, "The Stinger is heading toward Macronesian waters... He could be trying to defect." The implications of that disquieted her, to say the least. To lose a resource like Wolenczak's mind to Macronesia could tip the balance of power dangerously. "What the hell happened to him?" Hudson asked, still obviously furious. "Did somebody drug him? Or both of them? Does anybody know where they went on leave?" Shanahan knew, all right. After his fight with Henderson, she'd thought that she might've had a chance at Ford. So she'd made a few inquiries, and managed to find out his plans. However, they seemed to have been interrupted. "Shuttle records indicate that they went to Hilo with Lieutenant O'Neill, sir." Or at least, they would have if she'd needed to check them. Hudson turned to Hanley. "Get O'Neill up here. On the double." "Yes, sir." Hanley pushed a few buttons. "He's not responding, sir." Hudson's jaw worked. It seemed to Shanahan that he was trying not to put a fist through Hanley's console. "That's it," he said in a low voice. "I don't give a damn if he's on leave or not." He got up and stalked towards the door. "I'm going to his quarters," he announced. Then, almost low enough to be to himself, "and so help me God, if he's ignoring me, I'll..." The rest of the threat was lost to distance. Shanahan looked over at Hanley. "O'Neill's dead meat." Shanahan knew that Hudson and O'Neill had never gotten along very well, and Hudson's temper had a way of flaring up at the nearest person. "Yeah," Hanley agreed. "The captain'll kill him." Hanley turned back to her console. Shanahan continued to monitor the Stinger's progress, and thanked her lucky stars that _she_ wasn't the one Hudson was angry at. * * * * * Ford kept his heading straight for the heart of Macronesia. An indicator light got his attention. "ETA to Macronesian border, one hour, thirty minutes." There was no response from his "captor". "Are you alive back there?" Ford asked. "Yeah." Ford might have believed the teen, had his voice not cracked halfway through the word. He'd fought his own battles against pre-mission nerves. "Don't worry," he tried to soothe. "We'll be fine." Lucas' response told Ford that he wasn't going to listen to reason. "No," he protested, "we won't be fine. They'll put _you_ in prison!" At least now, Ford knew why Lucas was so upset. "I know," Ford replied calmly. It was all he could do. They both knew that Lucas was the one with the harder assignment. Oh, it sounded easy on the surface. Just pull the wool over the eyes of the most well-known fascist dictator and his entire staff long enough for O'Neill to get in and out of the country with Deon's staff. Ford was, unfortunately, just a prop. "They'll _interrogate_ you!" Lucas cried, breaking through Ford's train of thought. "I know," Ford repeated. "Aren't you scared?" *Aren't I scared? Hell, no. I'm just fine. Peachy keen, in fact. I've been looking forward to a chance to go _back_ into Macronesia ever since the _last_ time.* What the hell kind of question was that?!? He fought to keep his voice steady as he answered. "Terrified." *In fact,* he thought ruefully, *There's too much blood in my adrenaline system.* He was going to have to ask Lonnie to stop making light of dangerous situations. It was beginning to rub off on him. If he ever saw her again. Ford had known from the moment he and Lucas had left the Section Seven building that his chances of making it back alive were even worse than Lucas'. "I wish I could be that calm about it," Lucas said enviously. Ford was at first glad that he'd managed to convince Lucas. But then, he realized that Lucas didn't deserve a lie. "Believe me, I'm not." "But what if they kill you?" Lucas asked softly, on the brink of tears. The shooting must have taken a larger toll on the boy than Ford had expected. He bristled at what Section Seven had done: force a child into a world he had no business being in, making him "kill" for their own objectives. He wished they were back in Hilo, still in the debriefing room, Montgomery sitting within arm's reach. So he could strangle her for what she and her people were making them do. "This isn't helping," Ford said, not sure if he meant Lucas' sharing his fears or his own morbid train of thought. "What would be best right now would be for you to get back into character." "What?!?" Lucas didn't seem to realize just how badly Ford wanted to talk about something else. "You're defecting to the enemy," Ford explained. "You killed an officer--" Lucas visibly flinched-- "And kidnapped me. You're desperate to get to Macronesia. Act like it." "How?" Ford was struck by the sudden fear that he'd have to prompt Lucas through the entire mission. "For one thing," he replied, "Get the gun up off of the deck." Lucas looked startled. "Oh. Right." He picked up the gun and stared at it. Ford sighed. This was going to be harder than he'd thought. "Now, turn off the safety," he instructed, "And point it at my head." "You're kidding." Lucas sounded horrified at the very suggestion. "Just do it," Ford said, becoming somewhat frustrated. "Yes, sir." Great. _Another_ problem. "And stop calling me sir!" "Yes, s--" Lucas caught himself. "I mean, yeah. Whatever you say." "No." Ford couldn't believe that he was teaching Lucas how to hold a hostage. Not exactly a valuable life skill, he supposed. "Not whatever _I_ say. I'm the hostage, remember?" Lucas nodded, and rested the gun on the back of the seat, near Ford's ear. "Very convincing," Ford said, "But you forgot to turn off the safety." "But," Lucas protested, "One slip of my finger, and you could be--" "That's the point." Ford wondered just how simple he'd have to make this. "You aren't supposed to give a damn." "But I _do_." With that short sentence, Lucas had managed to do what few had done before him: get under Ford's armor and truly touch his heart. He'd never realized that Lucas seemed to care a lot about him. He'd never told the teenager that he cared, too. Still, now was _not_ the best time for sentiment. "Too bad. You've got to put your personal feelings aside for the good of the mission." "How?" Lucas asked again. Ford didn't have an answer. "Stop asking questions," he said instead, "And prepare yourself." "For what?" "For anything." They both fell silent for a few moments. "Commander," Lucas spoke up, "By the way, you _did_ get a chance to make up with Lonnie, didn't you?" *No... I don't want to think about that...* It would cause Ford to lose his control. And then, all of his emotions would come boiling to the surface. But the silence was as meaningful as any answer. "Oh God." Lucas' voice broke into Ford's reverie. "You didn't." "No." At Lucas' look of shock, Ford wanted to explain. "She would've wondered why I was so ready to apologize. It would've jeopardized the mission." "The mission?" Lucas choked. "Is that all you care about? She didn't even get a chance to say good-bye! It'll kill her!" *I know.* "Don't think I don't care. She'll understand." *I hope.* "I've got my duty, and she's got hers. Besides, I plan on coming back." "So did Lieutenant Brody." With an effort, Ford held himself back. Just the mention of his late friend and comrade was enough to raise Ford's temper to its boiling point or reduce him to tears, depending on his mood. He did neither. This time. * * * * * Hudson was standing outside of O'Neill's quarters. It had been thirty seconds, yet there still hadn't been a response to his knock. He was too infuriated to give a damn about courtesy. Hudson punched in his access code, and canceled the lock. Eventually, the door opened. He entered. There was a sour scent in the air. The sickening, mealy, pungent odor of rotting flesh. *What the hell?* Then he got a better look at the viscous fluid that coated the deck. Blood. More than a bit of it. Hudson moved over to the computer area. He thought he knew what he'd find. The reality was worse than he'd imagined. *My God...* O'Neill's body was slouched limply in the chair with a hole the size of an old-style silver dollar gaping in the back of his head blood dripping out of it and pooling on the floor. Hudson felt his stomach churn as he turned away from the scene. The sheer brutality of the crime sickened him almost more than the actual death. He pulled out his PAL. Dialed the medbay. "Medbay. Perry here." He took a deep breath. Forced his revulsion down as he spoke. "This is the captain. Lieutenant O'Neill is dead." He wished he could stop there. But he couldn't. Perry would need an accurate description of the murder scene. Hudson almost choked on the words as he continued. "He's been shot. Execution-style. Send a medteam to recover the body." His voice was flat. Inside, he was raging. He was determined to find the killer. He'd be damned if he let such barbarism go unpunished. But the prime suspect was already gone. * * * * * The Macronesian ship was on an intercept course. Everything was going according to plan, but Lucas was _still_ worried. About what he was going to say, what the Macronesians would do, _everything_. "They've picked us up," Ford said. He looked over his shoulder at Lucas. "Get ready." Lucas nodded. "Open a hailing frequency," he told Ford. Ford half-grinned. "Yes, _sir_," he said sarcastically. Lucas managed a brief smile in return. "Good luck," Ford said, punching buttons. "Frequency open," he said a moment later. Lucas hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to say. First thing's first, he had to identify himself. "Macronesian border patrol, this is Lucas Wolenczak, formerly of the UEO." Now came the tough part. "I'd like to declare my intention to defect to the Macronesian Alliance." There was a long silence from the captain of the other ship. *They aren't buying it,* he thought, the panic in his mind's voice painfully obvious. *We're dead. * * * * * Then a female voice came from the speaker. "This is Captain Wanda Lee of the Macronesian ship _Nightstalker_. We're detecting _two_ life signs aboard your vessel. Identify your pilot," she ordered. "Commander Jonathan Ford of _seaQuest_," he responded. Then he played his hole card. "He's my hostage." Another pause from the speaker, another moment of sheer terror for Lucas. *Come _on_ already!* "Prepare for boarding while I verify your story," the captain ordered. Lucas smiled at Ford in relief. "Of course," he said casually, "Take your time. Stinger out." * * * * * Captain Wanda Lee terminated the conversation, and sat back in her chair, not believing her good luck. *Just when I think that I'm going to be stuck on this tiny ship forever, _this_ happens!* The _Nightstalker_-- a name that was a lot more threatening than the lightly-armed border patrol ship-- out on the border, was deep into the backwaters. "So," Lieutenant Becky Seifang said, "Do you think he's legit?" Although Seifang was speaking to her, Lee's XO answered instead. "Of course he is!" Commander Chris Weiselski was one of those people who thought they knew everything, tried to demonstrate it constantly, and usually wound up making himself look like an idiot in the process. Today was no different. "Why wouldn't he be?" Lee could think of several reasons. That leaving the UEO for Macronesia was just plain stupid was the first that came to mind. "That other officer, the one who he says he's holding hostage -" "Commander Ford," Weiselski informed her. Seifang shot him an annoyed glance, then continued. "I saw a picture of him once, in a newscast. He's so--" "Handsome, maybe?" Weiselski asked, cutting her off. The two of them had a history, and they twisted the knives every chance they got. Seifang shot Weiselski a withering glare. "_Strong _, Chris. He's so _strong_. Or looks that way, at least." She cocked her head slightly. "How could a kid hold him hostage?" Weiselski made a derisive sound. "He's probably got a gun, Becky. He could even hold me hostage with that." "A guy with a pushpin could hold you hostage." Somehow, Seifang always knew what to say and how to say it. Her deadpan humor had saved Lee from the brink of insanity several dozen times. Now, Lee fought to keep from laughing aloud. *Point to Becky,* she thought. Weiselski flushed, which only caused Seifang to laugh. "Lieutenant Seifang," Lee interrupted, out of pity for Weiselski, "How long since we called Command?" She'd been lost in her own thoughts for who knew how long. "We've just received confirmation of their identities, Captain," Seifang reported, all business in an instant. "Still waiting for verification of his story." "Thank you. Commander Weiselski," Lee said, turning to her exec, "Any signs of pursuit?" "None, Captain." Lee sat back again, mind whirling. As was required of all Macronesian officers, she knew the intelligence on the _seaQuest_ inside and out, backward and forward. Lucas Wolenczak. Rank: Ensign. Position: Science Officer. A noted genius who carried in his head command codes for the flagship of the fleet, and on top of _that_, had kidnapped one of the best officers in the entire UEO Navy had declared his intention to defect, yet _no one_ was chasing him? It made no sense. "Well?" Seifang asked, sounding confused, "Where's _seaQuest_? Hudson's said to never give up the chase until they surrender." Lee shrugged. "Maybe they were sabotaged." Given Wolenczak's reported abilities, _seaQuest_ was probably dead in the water. Weiselski laughed skeptically. "Hudson's just afraid to get into a battle that he can't win," Weiselski declared. *Sure, Weiselski,* Lee thought wryly. *Our tiny little border patrol ship taking on the flagship of the UEO? I think not. * * * * * "In fact," Weiselski continued, "I'll bet I could take Hudson in hand-to-hand combat." Lee privately doubted it. While Weiselski was tall, he didn't have much in the way of muscles. Or brains. "Sure, Chris," Seifang said sarcastically, "Except you couldn't handle my kid sister in a fixed fistfight, remember?" Seifang was good, Lee'd give her that. "Look, Becky," Weiselski began, "I told you, I'd been sick--" A beeping from his console cut off his excuse. "Sir," he said to Lee, "The Stinger is ready to dock." Lee nodded; this was what she'd been waiting for. "All right. Seifang, go and get them, and bring them to the briefing room. Cuff the commander, but only disarm the ensign." She turned to Weiselski. "Commander, you're in command." *Please,* Lee silently pleaded as she walked off her bridge, *Weiselski, don't you _dare_ screw up!* Lee could still remember what Admiral Camhi had said to her when Weiselski was assigned: "Give him a shot, Wanda," he'd said. "He comes from a family of good leaders. He might surprise you." Some surprise. She sighed as she entered the briefing room to wait. "Let's get this show started," she said to herself. But Wanda Lee was no fool. She knew what this incident would probably cause. War. TO BE CONTINUED... Copyright 1996 Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie =========================== PART 5 ===================================== Disclaimer: The following story belongs to Rachel Brody and Melissa Beattie. Duplication is _strictly prohibited_ without their permission. For the sake of sanity, please refrain from posting or sending this to others without their permission. Send Questions, comments, and constructive critiscism to: bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Introduction: This story takes place after "Weapons of War". The story is set up, to some degree, in "Fusion", "Kaos Theory", and "Cost of Living", which are also by Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie. "Trouble in Paradise" (part I) By Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Part 5 of 24 Chapter 5: The Macronesians kept their ship cold. That was the first and only thought in Lucas' mind as he played out his role as a "defector". He let himself go on automatic as he waited for the Macronesian government to confirm his story. He was on pins and needles. As such, when the second officer spoke, Lucas nearly jumped. "Sir," the petite brunette said, "We're being hailed." Seifang paused to listen to her headset, in a gesture so reminiscent of O'Neill that Lucas' heart ached with homesickness at the same time that his stomach lurched form the memory of what he'd done. "It's Command." Captain Lee nodded. "Put him through," she ordered. "Aye, sir," Seifang said, pushing buttons. The screen flickered on and, to Lucas' quickly-hidden horror, a man's face appeared. But not just any man. President Alexander Bourne. Of the Macronesian Alliance. Lucas was immediately filled with a combination of awe and repulsion as the name and face clicked. He could see that the others in the room were having the same type of reaction. Lee saluted sharply, the barest trace of...something Lucas couldn't quite identify in her eyes. It could have been disgust. "At ease, Captain Lee," Bourne said, a slight smile on his face. Lee looked anything but "at ease", when she responded. "Mr. President--" she stuttered, "Sir-- I wasn't expecting--" "I understand," Bourne interrupted. "Let's get down to business. I understand that you have an Ensign Lucas Wolenczak on board." *What,* Lucas thought, momentarily forgetting his lines. *There's more than one of me?* Still, Lucas knew what he was expected to do. "Just Lucas Wolenczak, Mr. President. I've resigned my commission." Bourne grinned. The look in his eyes reminded Lucas of a shark eyeing its prey. "I see. And who is this Commander Jonathan Ford you mentioned-- provided that he's still a commander." Bourne was playing dumb. There was no way that he could be ignorant of Ford's identity. At the same time he was forcing himself not to react, Lucas had to hide a grin. Ford, handcuffed and covered by two burly Macronesian guards, was sitting in one corner, just out of sight of the vidcom screen. Lucas knew that nothing in the Galaxy would make Ford give up his stripes. At least, almost nothing. Section Seven and what it could do was still a prominent thought in Lucas' mind. "The executive officer of the _seaQuest_," Lucas answered. "And why is he with you?" Bourne asked. The answer was obvious enough, but Lucas knew that Bourne just wanted him to have to say it aloud, probably to be broadcast that evening on the World News Net. Still, he had no choice but to play along. "As a gesture of goodwill," Lucas answered vaguely. "From the UEO to Macronesia?" *Not as such.* However, if Lucas made any sort of mistake, he might as well be. "From me to Macronesia," Lucas responded, as ordered. Bourne nodded, seemingly satisfied. "The _Nightstalker_ is scheduled to rendezvous with the _Ayatollah_ in six hours. They will transport both you and the commander directly to the capital." Lucas nodded. Everything seemed to be going according to plan. "Thank you, Mr. President," he said. "Don't thank me yet." With that, the screen snapped off. Lee gestured. After a brief, utterly useless struggle, Ford was led from the room. "Seifang," Lee said, running her fingers through her short red hair. "Escort Mr. Wolenczak to quarters. Standard procedure. Oh," she said, snapping her fingers as though a thought had just occured. "And don't let Weiselski anywhere near him. You remember what happened last time." Seifang nodded. "Yes, sir." Then her posture became slightly less formal. "I'd prefer not to have to try and get the blood out of Chris' uniform again." Lee half-grinned, then grimaced, as though the action pained her. As Lucas looked closer, he saw that the Macronesian captain had what appeared to be old-style stitches in her chin. It had been a long time since Lucas had seen anything that primitive. It looked like the lack of medical supplies wasn't limited to just the civilian population of the alliance. Then, Seifang grabbed his arm, and Lucas had no more time to reflect on the stitches as he was led out of the room. Seifang was silent as she took him to a small room, one that reminded him of the quarters he'd had onboard the first _seaQuest_. "I realize that you're probably used to more spacious quarters, Wolenczak, but," she shrugged, "You get used to it." Lucas smiled at her, trying to get her to loosen up. *Hell,* a voice said from the back of his mind, *As long as you're here, you might as well have some fun...* Lucas blinked, wondering exactly where that thought had come from. He hoped Piccolo wasn't starting to rub off on him. While he was mulling this over, Seifang had turned on the lights, revealing a small bedroom, and an even smaller bathroom. Lucas looked around with satisfaction. "This'll be fine. Thanks." She nodded. "Your welcome." A half-smile pulled at the corner of her lips. "If you need anything, don't bother using the intercom. It's usually out." The half-smile blossemed into a full-blown grin. "And if it isn't, we'll just ignore you anyway." It was a moment before Lucas realized that she was kidding. Lucas grinned back as she left. It was a universal constant, he now saw. All ships had to have someone like this, someone who was constantly cracking jokes and trying to lighten the mood. _seaQuest_ had Piccolo. This ship had Lieutenant Seifang. It made the Macronesians seem more human to him. He didn't know if that was good or bad. * * * * * Hudson hurried into the medbay after Perry's call. He'd been like a whirlwind ever since Wolenczak had defected. And kidnapped Commander Ford. The shock of finding O'Neill's body had merely exacerbated the problem. So when Perry called, it took him all of sixty seconds to get to the medbay. "Captain." A voice came from behind him. He turned to see Perry removing her surgical gloves. She'd just finished the autopsy. "Doctor," he asked, "What did you find?" She shook her head. "It was a homicide." *Damn.* Hudson had been hoping that the incident had been just a bizarre accident. "Are you sure?" "Yes. There was foreign DNA all over the body, as well as fingerprints. I'm running a comparison search now, but with the computers down..." "I know." That damned boy had managed to slow the computers past the pace of cold molasses. "Dr. Perry?" They both turned to see Dr. Meridith Burke, one of Perry's assistants, entering the medbay. She held out a small computerized medchart. "Here are the results you wanted." "Thanks," Perry said as she took the chart. As she read it over, her expression turned to one of disbelief. She blinked. Then she took a closer look at the chart. The silence stretched until Hudson couldn't stand it any longer. "Well?" "According to this," Perry said, shaking her head in amazement, "There's only one possible DNA match aboard." She fell silent, and Hudson wanted to throttle her for her misguided sense of drama. She remained silent. "Doctor," he pressed, almost losing control of his voice, "Who killed my lieutenant?" "There's only one person who's DNA matches what I found," she repeated. She looked up at Hudson, incomprehension in her eyes. "Ensign Lucas Wolenczak." Hudson was shocked to the point of speechlessness, even though he knew that it had to be true. *First he kidnaps Ford. Then he defects to the enemy.* A sudden, inappropriate, and completely out-of-place thought struck him. *I suppose murder is only the natural progression of events. What the hell had happened to that kid in Hilo? "Captain Hudson," Hanley called. It took over a second for him to realize that her voice was tinny because it was coming from his PAL. "Lieutenant?" Hudson couldn't even begin to wonder what had happened now. "Piccolo and Henderson are docking. You said you wanted to be informed--" "Thank you, Lieutenant," he said, cutting her off. "I'm on my way." Hudson had been hoping that they would stay longer. Maybe even the entire week. Now he had to not only tell them that Ford had been kidnapped, but also that Wolenczak was responsible for something much worse than insubordination and sabotage. From the looks of things, Lucas was responsible for murder. * * * * * O'Neill was worried. Here he was in a maglev car, about to meet Larry Deon, who, according to all reports, was as ruthless as Steve Atkinson was supposed to be. If there even _was_ a Steve Atkinson. O'Neill still didn't know how much truth there was in his new alter-ego. It was probably better that way. "Nervous?" McKnight asked, sounding somewhat amused. Of course she was amused, he thought. She wasn't the one who'd most likely be interrogated and killed if he slipped up. "Nervous!" O'Neill repeated with what he hoped was a disbelieving laugh. "Dr. Steven Atkinson doesn't get nervous!" Maybe not, but Lieutenant J.G. Timothy O'Neill got scared, worried, and terrified. Rather easily, by the looks of things. He took a deep breath as the door opened into a corridor. "This way, Doctor," McKnight said, gesturing down the hallway. "Don't forget," she said under her breath, "Put up a fuss about your gun at first, but eventually surrender it." O'Neill had gotten to be so comfortable with the gun that he actually didn't want to part with it. Hell, he might _need_ it. "We're here," McKnight said, stopping in front of a door. "Good luck, Doctor." _I'm going to need it,_ he thought as she opened the door. "Kelsey!" came a voice from the center of the room. A male form broke away from the small crowd. "It's so good to see you." As Deon approached, O'Neill put on his most ruthless expression. The one he'd been practicing in the mirror for the past few days. "Larry," McKnight said casually, "May I present Dr. Steven Atkinson, biochemist." Deon smiled. "A pleasure, Dr. Atkinson. You come highly recommended." Deon paused for a moment, looking around subtly, "I understand that the UEO has banned your experiments." He had experiments? He was barely able to refrain from shooting McKnight a questioning glare. Instead, he grinned. "Can you blame them?" Deon's grin widened. "Not really. I hope you feel comfortable continuing them here." Deon chuckled. "Everyone else does." He gestured to the center of the room. "Let me introduce you to the rest of the team." Deon walked O'Neill to the center of the room. "Everyone," he called, "May I have your attention, please?" Everyone looked up from what they were doing. "I'd like to present the fourth and final member of our team: Dr. Steve Atkinson, biochemist. Dr. Atkinson," Deon continued, looking at O'Neill, "Feel free to chat with the others." And with that, O'Neill was on his own. "Excuse me," a soft British voice said from behind him, "My name is Doctor Mark Murphy." When O'Neill turned, he saw that Murphy was perhaps thirty, with longish brown hair and brown eyes. He was incredibly thin-- it looked like he hadn't eaten in a week. "I'm the molecular geneticist," Murphy continued shyly. O'Neill realized that Murphy reminded him of someone, though he couldn't place who. His contemplation was interrupted by the middle-aged man who shoved Murphy aside. "Dr. Atkinson," the man said, "I'm Dr. Chris Malcom, microbiologist. I trust you've heard of me?" O'Neill had. Malcom was reputed to be the most pompous, arrogant, and merciless scientist on the mercenary circuit. If Malcom was working on it, then O'Neill knew that this project, whatever it was, was trouble. Big trouble. "Oh, yes," O'Neill said, nodding. "I've been an admirer of yours for years." At least, "Atkinson" had been. O'Neill found Malcom beneath contempt. Malcom smiled, and his beady grey eyes nearly vanished. "That's good to know. I'm sure we'll get along well then. Now, if you'll excuse me?" And he was gone, off to talk to Deon. O'Neill looked around for Murphy, to try and engage the young man in conversation again. O'Neill was curious as to how a seemingly innocent person could get involved in something like this. *Maybe he's another spy,* O'Neill thought wryly. "Excuse me, Dr. Atkinson?" The voice was female, full and pleasing to the ear. O'Neill turned... ...And found himself face to face with one of the loveliest women he'd seen since... well, it had been a long time. "I'm Dr. Katrina Ayyash, biologist," she continued, "It's a pleasure to meet you." She extended a hand. O'Neill was terrified. He was always terrified around beautiful women. Fortunately, "Atkinson" took over. "Likewise," he said, "I'm sure." He took her hand and kissed it lightly. She smiled at him, and he at her. For a moment, O'Neill was speechless, unable to believe that he'd actually been able to do what he'd just done. "I like your gun," she said, still smiling, "But do you really think it's appropriate?" He'd forgotten about the gun. But it was too late. She'd all ready noticed. "No one's said anything," he said nonchalantly. "Besides," he continued, "I like having it around. It's gotten me out of potential trouble spots." *Yeah. Like the spider I bashed with the handle this morning. * * * * * "I'm sure it has," she said with a laugh. "But if the guards see it, they'll have a coniption. At least, they did when they saw mine." "If they try to take it, they won't be the _only_ ones to have a problem." They both laughed at that. "I don't know about you," he said casually, "But I don't know much about this project. Got any ideas?" She smiled. "Deon will brief you privately in the morning. What he tells you is all you'll need to know." That sounded like a familiar scenario to O'Neill. "As for tonight," she continued, staring into O'Neill's eyes, "He just wants us to get...acquainted." Her smile and the particular stress she put on the word "acquainted" made O'Neill profoundly nervous. "Atkinson" almost slipped for a moment, but O'Neill was able to recover in time. "I see," he said, his voice, for once, staying steady. "And just how well acquainted did you want to get?" He wasn't sure how well _he_ wanted to get acquainted. "No more than the basics tonight. As for later..." she trailed off, smiling seductively. "We'll see." With one last smile, she strode away. O'Neill managed to merge with the shadows for the rest of the evening. * * * * * Hudson wasn't looking forward to this meeting. Henderson and Piccolo had just disembarked from the shuttle, and neither looked to be in the best of moods. Henderson was giving Piccolo the proverbial "cold shoulder", and Piccolo...well, Hudson had occasionally had the kind of hangover that Piccolo seemed to be afflicted with, so he knew that the young man probably didn't need the kind of news that Hudson had for them. Which made him glad that he'd decided to tell Henderson first. "Captain!" Henderson sounded surprised by his presence. "We weren't expecting you." "Lieutenant," he said without preamble, "I'd like to speak to you in my office." In truth, he didn't want to tell her at all, but being the bearer of bad news was yet another of the burdens of command. "Yes, sir. Is it all right if I drop off my things first?" She didn't seem to be having toruble picking up on the concern in his voice. "It's urgent." Hudson knew that if he didn't tell her soon, he wouldn't have the heart to. "Of course, sir." She turned to Piccolo, speaking quietly, "Tony, I'll see you later." Piccolo nodded, looking pained. Hudson walked out of the bay, steeling himself to tell her. She followed him in silence. * * * * * O'Neill was dead. Kimura had received the news in stoic silence, then began to meditate on the subject. She didn't know what to do. Her feelings seemed all wrong. At the moment, all she felt was alone. O'Neill had been the only other one to speak her language, and the only one who knew anything about her people's customs. He'd been her last, minuscule tie to her home. And now, that was gone, too. She grieved for the loss. Not just hers, but for the loss of a man who was possessed of both the fierce heart of a warrior, and the deep soul of a poet. She'd known he had both from the first day she'd started communicating with him. And he'd opened them to her. O'Neill had lifted his defenses, and let her inside. As far as she knew, only his closest friends had been permitted entry. And Kimura had been one of them. Until she'd made her escape. His defenses had re-activated, slamming shut, until his inner self had been hidden, by wall after wall. She hadn't been able to get anything out of him, since. Other than ice, that is. At least her mission had been successful. O'Neill would've understood it's importance, in time. But apparently, he wouldn't get the chance. Kimura sighed. Not only was O'Neill dead, but the murderer had absconded with the first officer, fleeing to Macronesia. Again, she questioned the value of shore leave. It only seemed to lead to trouble. * * * * * Piccolo hadn't had so much alcohol in a _long_ time. The headache that throbbed in time with his pulse reminded him of why. And the fact that someone had begun pounding on his door wasn't helping. "Who is it?" he called. Instead of a reply, the door opened. Henderson entered, looking like she'd just been given the guided tour of Hell, and told that her room would be ready by tomorrow. A small needle of fear pricked inside him. "Lonnie," he asked, almost dreading the answer, "What's wrong?" "They're gone." Before he could ask what she meant, Henderson continued. "Tim, Jonathan, Lucas...all _gone_." The needle became a sabre, stabbing him in the stomach. "Yeah..." he said, trying to reassure himself that he was wrong, that they were all okay. "They're on leave." The simple shake of her head was enough to annihilate all hope that his brain was right, and his heart wrong. "Tim's dead..." she said, each word an obvious struggle. "...And Jonathan's been kidnapped." Piccolo felt a wave of shock, sadness, and horror slam into him, leeching away all of his heat. But the worst was yet to come. "By Lucas," Henderson finished. *I did _not_ hear that,* he insisted to himself. *I _couldn't_ have heard that!* "He's defected," Henderson continued. "To Macronesia." Piccolo refused to believe that. Nothing could make a kid like that _defect_. Lucas and Macronesia were like peanut butter and oranges: they did _not_ go together. "That's crazy," he insisted, but, even to his own ears, the defense sounded unsure. After all, he of all people knew just how little a one person really knew another. "I know," she agreed. "But it's true." Having no evidence to the contrary, Piccolo was forced to agree. So it was established: one of his closest friends had gone bonkers. *So now what?* He didn't know, so he asked. "I wish I knew," was her simple answer. *Me too,* he thought. *I wish I knew anything, any_body_ anymore.* * * * * * Lucas now understood how the Christians felt when the Romans shoved them into the arena. Like dead meat. He was being "escorted" by the captain and second officer to the executive office. The first officer, Weiselski, had been called to some admiral's office. While he knew that the two women to either side of him meant him no harm, he couldn't help but be nervous. After all, he was being taken to see the Man In Charge. He tried to hide it though. He _was_ playing a defector. Suddenly, Seifang steped over to him, reached out, and jerked him to a stop. She kept a hold on his wrist, restraining him. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't break free, her grip was like iron. "Stop it," Lee ordered. "You'd better calm down before you get in there, or you'll never convince him that you're for real." Lucas blinked, realizing that his cover had somehow been blown. He again tried to break Seifang's grip, but it was too strong. "What are you talking about?" Lucas asked, trying to sound tough. "Convince him of what?!?" He wasn't doing a very good job of sounding anything but terrified. Seifang smiled slightly. "Sure you're a defector," she said sarcastically. Lee threw her a look. "Becky, cool it." Lee turned back to Lucas. "We have friends in the UEO." Lucas felt confused. "Are you Sec--" "No," Lee said brusquely, cutting him off, "I'm not. I just have...friends." "In the UEO," Lucas said slowly. "Right." "What kind of friends?" Lee was beginning to look annoyed. "Well informed ones." Lucas realized that Wanda Lee was a master of circumlocution. He felt like he was trapped in a logic loop. "Oh," was all he said. "Look, kid," Seifang said from beside him, "Relax! His bark's worse than his bite...unless," she amended, "You get him mad." _That_ was certainly a comfort. "Thanks," Lucas said sarcastically. Lee glanced at her watch. "We'd better get going." Seifang nodded. She nudged Lucas, none too gently, in the direction of the office. Lucas moved, but he still had one more question that he had to ask. "These..._friends_ of yours..." "Yes?" "Are there any in Macronesia?" "Yes." That simple word was definately food for thought. But dinnertime was over. They had reached the office. Lee looked at the secretary. "Tell President Bourne that Mr. Wolenczak is here." The secretary did so. The door opened, and Lucas was motioned in by the secretary. *Time to face the lions,* he thought. The door's slam sounded like a guillotine being tripped. He looked beside him, and saw, to his surprise, that Lee and Seifang had followed him in. He wondered why. Bourne was doing some paperwork, pretending, Lucas thought, not to notice his visitors. It was the old "I'm in command, and you're not", game, and one that Lucas had seen before. He was able to force himself to relax. After an eternity, Bourne looked up, and looked mildly surprised to see them. Whether it was genuine surprise at Lee's and Seifang's prescence, or feigned surprise at Lucas', he didn't know. Bourne glanced at Lee. "Captain, " he said, sounding reasonable, "Is there something you require?" "No," Lee replied, "I just wanted to make sure that he didn't try anything." "Has he tried anything before?" Lucas felt his breath catch in his throat. He'd downloaded what scant files the border patrol vessel had in its hard drive, and transmitted them to Chandler. Seifang squeezed his hand ever-so-slightly. Reassuringly. "Not yet, Mr. President. But you know about these defectors, as unpredictable as they come." Bourne smiled, seemingly convinced. "Thank you for your concern Captain, but I shall be fine. Your prescence is not necessary." Lee smiled briefly and saluted, Seifang did the same. Then they exited, leaving Lucas alone. Bourne finally looked at him. Lucas fought the temptation to look elsewhere. "Mr. Wolenczak, I presume?" Lucas nodded in answer to Bourne's question. "I regret to inform you," Bourne said, sounding almost sincere, "That I cannot accept your defection at this time." Lucas was immediately thrown for a loop. If this was screwed up, there would be Hell to pay. And the bill would go to Lucas and Ford. "Due to certain political stresses between our two governments, any action on my country's part to harbor a fugitive could be regarded as an act of war." "But--" Lucas began, but Bourne cut him off. "However, if you would agree to change your request to political asylum, we could accomodate your wishes far more easily." *Not likely,* Lucas thought. His only wish right now was to go home. "Political asylum?" Lucas repeated, slightly uncomfortable as the realization of what Bourne had said hit. "All you would need to do," Bourne explained, " Would be to make a simple statement regarding your request, and take an oath of loyalty to my country. This would automatically give you Macronesian citizenship." *Just what I've always wanted.* "Sounds easy enough," Lucas replied. *Bet it _won't_ be, though.* "Consider the request made." * * * * * Solitaire was a game that O'Neill had played often as a boy. He'd been pleased to discover that the game had survived his ten- year absence. So many things hadn't. When he'd noticed that the laptops aboard Deon's jet had the program, he'd decided, on whim, to play. As always, it absorbed him completely. "Want some?" O'Neill looked up, startled, as Ayyash's voice broke into his thoughts. She had two steaming cups in her hands, one of which she was holding out to him. "Thanks," he said, accepting the cup. As the aroma teased his nose, O'Neill realized what it was. Coffee. _Real_ coffee. Real, honest-to-God, ridiculously expensive coffee. It had been years since he'd any. He sipped it, and found the taste exquisite. He then realized that the coffee was also extremely hot. He swallowed quickly. "Careful, it's hot," Ayyash said as she sat down next to him. Now she told him. "Yeah," he said wryly, "I noticed." Ayyash moved closer to him. As she reached out to swivel the computer towards her, O'Neill fought down a surge of heat. She laughed lightly as she saw his predicament. "Don't laugh," he told her, "It's part of my strategy." It was what he'd always said when he was stuck. "Yeah, I bet." She looked at the screen. After a few moments of contemplation, she pointed. "Try moving the black eight on top of the red nine." O'Neill had missed that one. He input the command. "I was about to do just that," O'Neill figured that Atkinson wouldn't like being caught flatfooted. "Of course you were..." she said, humoring him. Then, she looked deep into his eyes. "So, what's a handsome guy like you doing working for Deon?" *Handsome?* The last woman who'd ever called him _that_ had been his mother-- and that had been at his Academy graduation. *Stop. Steve Atkinson didn't go to the Naval Academy. And,* he continued lecturing himself, *he is _used_ to being flirted with!* That was one of the few things about Atkinson that O'Neill admired. "He pays well," O'Neill said with a shrug. "So I see." Ayyash stared at him until he met her emerald gaze. "I've been looking forward to working with you. I'm a huge fan of your work." O'Neill quickly looked down, lest she see the shock in his molasses-brown eyes. He had no idea what "work" she was talking about. "Don't be so modest," Ayyash continued, "Your theories are pure genius! I've been following you for years." O'Neill decided to play along. Hell, he might find out what he'd been doing. "Really?" O'Neill put on what he hoped was his most charming smile. "What did you think of my last paper?" Whatever _that_ was. "Let's just say that I can see why you're a wanted man in half a dozen countries." "Only half a dozen?" O'Neill asked in feigned surprise. She chuckled again, and this time, he joined her, wishing that he knew what he was talking about. "Well," Ayyash said, once she'd stopped laughing, "I just wanted to make sure that you felt welcome..." The way she smiled made O'Neill feel extremely shy. "So--" She leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. Every nerve in O'Neill's body tingled at the taste of her, every cell in his body swelled with her essence. His head swam, his heart pounded like it was trying to free itself from his chest, and then-- It was over. *Whoa...* O'Neill felt totally drained. "Atkinson" was nowhere to be found. "Welcome aboard." Just her nearness was intoxicating. O'Neill felt helpless in her presence. "Thanks, Doctor," he said, voice cracking. Ayyash stood and smiled at him. "No trouble." Then, mercifully, she walked away. O'Neill turned back to the laptop, ostensibly to continue his game. In reality, he was trying to get his mind and body back on speaking terms. Eventually, he succeeded, and he rebooted the solitaire program. *It's a dangerous game,* he thought. And he wasn't thinking about solitaire. TO BE CONTINUED... Copyright 1996 Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie =========================== PART 6 ===================================== Disclaimer: The following story belongs to Rachel Brody and Melissa Beattie. Duplication is _strictly prohibited_ without their permission. For the sake of sanity, please refrain from posting or sending this to others without their permission. Send Questions, comments, and constructive critiscism to: bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Introduction: This story takes place after "Weapons of War". The story is set up, to some degree, in "Fusion", "Kaos Theory", and "Cost of Living", which are also by Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie. "Trouble in Paradise" (part I) By Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Part 6 of 24 Chapter 6: The ship shuddered as it docked. The scientists were waiting for the airlock to open, so they could start their work. The door opened. O'Neill shuddered. Mercifully, the airlock didn't lead into _the_ corridor. The one that haunted him nightly. The one he'd have to take care to avoid daily during his stay. The one Brody had been shot in. "Steve!" Ayyash hissed from beside him. "Wake up!" O'Neill's head snapped up instantly. When his eyes focused, he saw a lovely raven-haired woman standing in the corridor. Next to her stood Alexander Bourne. So many emotions churned within O'Neill that he nearly choked. "Greetings," Bourne said, sounding almost cordial, "Welcome to Macronesia." O'Neill had to admit it was a nicer welcome than he and the rest of the strike team had recieved during their last visit to Macronesia. He fought the urge to go up to Bourne and tear the president's heart out. Assuming he had one, which O'Neill doubted. Gesturing to the woman, Bourne continued. "This is my Chief Advisor, Sydney Arkara. She will be your guide for the moment." There was something about Arkara that made O'Neill want to run screaming for the hills. Bourne regarded the foursome with an odd expression for a moment. "Where's Deon?" "He's coming later." Malcom swaggered forward. "Is the president too busy to show our esteemed group around his fine capital?" he asked sarcastically. Bourne's glare, had his eyes been lasers, would've reduced Malcom to ashes. Arkara smiled thinly. "Regrettably, yes. I'm preparing a small reception in your honor, for tonight. You'll be able to speak with him then." Great. The absolute _last_ thing O'Neill wanted was to have endure an evening of small talk with Alexander Bourne. "Of course, Mr. President," Deon said, smoothly stepping to the head of the group. "Good," Bourne said, insincerely. "Now, I'm afraid I really must go." And he departed. "Excuse me, Doctors?" Arkara said politely, "If you'll follow me?" As they all fell into step behind her, O'Neill realized exactly why Arkara made his hackles rise and stand at attention. Just by the way she carried herself, and spoke, and...everything else about her, radiated danger. She was someone dangerous. Someone deadly. Deadlier than Bourne. And this time, thanks to Section Seven and Larry Deon, there was no escape. * * * * * Lucas looked around at the spacious quarters he'd been assigned. Bourne had mentioned that his Chief Advisor, Sydney Arkara-- something like a vice-president, Lucas assumed-- would stop by to help him learn a statement. A _propagnda_ statement. Lucas wasn't looking forward to it. The hard knock on the door jarred Lucas from his thoughts. From the knock, and name, Lucas expected to see either a meek clerk, or an enforcer-type muscleman who'd be perfectly willing to bludgeon the speech into Lucas' head if he didn't learn it quickly enough. "Come in," Lucas called, trying to prepare for either eventuality, neither working very well. The door opened, and a striking raven-haired woman entered. Lucas' heart skipped a beat in surprise. She was not what he'd expected. She was far, far worse. "Mr. Wolenczak," the woman said, "My name is Sydney Arkara, Chief Advisor to President Bourne." Something about her voice sent unpleasant chills up and down Lucas' spine. As she walked further into the room, Lucas felt that Arkara was radiating danger. She indicated the sheet of paper she held. "Your speech," she informed him. When Lucas reached out for the piece of paper, his hand accidentally brushed Arkara's. As their flesh made contact, Lucas' entire arm felt suddenly cold, as though the Chief Advisor was somehow leaching away at his body heat. "Well?" Arkara asked impatiently, drawing Lucas' attention away. "Can you read this?" Lucas shrugged, trying not to show how instictively terrified he was of Arkara. "I guess so." "Good," was all she said. Her chilling smile forced the temperature of the room down to absolute zero. For approximately the millionth time since he'd been "recruited" by Section Seven, Lucas wondered exactly what he'd done to deserve this. * * * * * Lucas was exhausted. *Strike that,* he told himself. He was _way_ past exhausted. He was barely conscious. Arkara had forced him to read statement several times the previous night. Actually, "several times" was a bit of an understatement. They had been up until 0230 as she made him practice, giving him more-than-occasional "pointers". Only when he had been too exhausted to stand had he succeeded in convincing her to let him go to bed. Then, he had been rudely awakened at 0500-- well, Arkara had been more than polite over the intercom, but at 0500, he didn't care. Even with only two and a half hours of sleep, he knew what they were trying to do. Exhaust him. And they were doing a damned fine job of it. As he watched the media eating out of Bourne's hands, one word kept rising to mind. *Bullshit.* It was the only description that made fit most of what Bourne was saying. Everything else was an outright lie. For an instant, Lucas wondered why the press was taking the crap that Bourne was doling out. He had to struggle to not to obey his instincts and reach to his side for the plasma pistol that normally hung there, and kill Bourne where he stood. It was what every muscle in his body was trying to make him do. *Mind over matter.* He was smart. He could manage it. Besides, if his hand made the slightest threatening move, Arkara would stop him. He glanced back up towards the podium, wondering how long it would be until Bourne or Arkara-- or even the Defense Advisor, Schwartz, although he doubted it-- would "offer" him the chance to speak. He was amazed at how much Bourne seemed to be enjoying himself. Even as Lucas watched, he was fielding questions with expert ease. The president gestured to another reporter, a dark-haired young man from the World News Net, who seized his chance to speak. "What exactly is Mr. Wolenczak's explanation for his defection? And is there any truth to the rumors of a UEO Naval Officer being held in your detention facilities?" Lucas felt his stomach flip as Bourne answered the question on his behalf, something about him being alone when he'd arrived...and something... But all he could think of was Commander Ford in the "detention center". The jail cell. Lucas hadn't heard anything about him since he'd arrived. He was worried sick about what Ford must have been going through in past day and a half. His palms were clammy, and he was sure that his normally pale complexion would be, by now, dead white. "...Mr. Wolenczak?" He looked up, realizing that he should have been paying attention to Bourne's speech. He felt Arkara "gently" prod him towards the podium-- he was supposed to speak-- but what about? "Would you mind...uh...repeating the question?" "No," said the reporter. "Why are you in Macronesia?" *Because of Section Seven.* This was the question that Lucas had been dreading. The point at which he'd be past the point of no return. In order to keep the mission successful, he now had to denounce the UEO and all it stood for. In front of a group of media personnel that would gobble it up, rehash it into something even more damaging, and spit it back out. Sounding worse than when he'd said it in the first place. But if he didn't say it, or said something wrong, there would be hell to pay. Trying not to let the fact that millions of people would hear a distorted version of what he was about to say, he took a deep breath and dove in head first. "Well, to be perfectly frank, the UEO is being rapidly overtaken by the eastern Pacific Rim countries, in everything from technology to government to economy." He had to concentrate on what he was saying in order to get it right, especially in his mentally depleted state. "As a leader in the east, Macronesia was the country that I thought would be ready to accept it's responsibility to the world-- a responsibility that the UEO is simply incapable of fulfilling. "Ten years ago, when I first began my work on SeaQuest, that wasn't the truth...but times change." *Right*, he thought. Not even ten years could change the fact that the UEO was one of the most civilized governments to ever exist, in the history of all mankind. "Macronesia is now setting the precedent for the future of the world." The thought that the precedent for the world could be anything _like_ Macronesia chilled him to the bone, but against his better judgement, he continued. "The government of the Macronesian Alliance is more efficient than the UEO's could ever hope to be, because the UEO is sinking in its own decadence. It is unable--because of the overwhelming amount of bureaucracy-- to reap the full benefits of the talents of people such as myself." *At least in the UEO, annoying the wrong person won't get you killed.* "However, President Bourne and the government that he represents have the initiative, the drive, and the means to utilize these same talents. The truth of the matter is this: the tomorrows of the world lie with this country, not with the UEO." *And if that's the case, may whatever God you people believe in have mercy on your souls...* "In order to make a personal attempt to quicken the inevitable rise to power of this nation, I have resigned my commission as an ensign in the Navy of the aforementioned UEO, and have requested official citizenship in the Macronesian Alliance. To my immense pleasure, I have been granted both citizenship _and_ asylum in this country." And then he was finished. He had already been exhausted. Now he was simply dead on feet. And after what he'd just said, he didn't doubt that there would be a lot of people who would want him just plain dead. "Mr. Wolenczak?" The new voice made him inwardly shudder. He had already spewed out everything he'd been prepared with-- wasn't that enough? But the reporter went on, seemingly oblivious to his exhaustion. "What do you think the UEO's reaction to your defection will be?" *I don't know! I didn't defect!* That was quickly followed by: *I am _never_ going on shore leave with Commander Ford _again_!* He was almost thankful when Arkara's hand wrapped itself around his arm and pulled him back. Bourne stepped forwards to respond. Although Lucas knew that he was only going to take the opportunity to strengthen his position, all he felt was incredible relief. And fatigue. "Both Mr. Wolenczak and myself hope that the UEO will have the ability to handle this crippling blow to their position with dignity. However, I cannot make it clear enough that he _has not defected_. Mr. Wolenczak has merely decided to work towards the greater good for the benefit of all humanity." The greater good? If Bourne was in charge of _that_, Lucas knew that humanity was in for a hell of a joyride. As reporters clamored to question him further, Bourne shook his head and held up a silencing hand. "I regret to say that this is all the time we have for today. Any further questions will have to be answered by either of my advisors or by my press officials. Thank you for your attention and support." As he was escorted off the platform, Lucas was only vaguely aware of Arkara and Schwartz stepping forward and beginning to speak. * * * * * As difficult as it was, Sydney Arkara managed to keep from chuckling at Wolenczak's attempted sincerity. He had sounded sure of himself, and all she could think was that the boy had missed his calling-- he should have been a politician. If only he hadn't been born a UEO citizen, he might have been worth something to her. Had she not known that his speech had been carefully prepared, hammered out between herself, Bourne, and Schwartz the night of Wolenczak's arrival, she would have been tempted to let herself be lured in by his child-like innocence. However, Arkara _did_ know those things, and she wasn't about to forget them. It really was a shame, though. Aside from Wolenczak's affiliation with the UEO and a tendency to take everything at face value, there wasn't anything, really, that she could find wrong with him. She wondered how much longer she and Bourne-- Schwartz didn't count, in the long run-- would have to humor the child. She didn't like looking like a fool. If it had been up to her, the "defector" would have been interrogated the moment he had set foot in Macronesian Territory. Then again, Bourne had been bored lately, despite her best efforts to relieve the tedium of his office. She'd hoped that the arrival of Deon's scientists-- *and his CEO*, she thought with a smile-- would have given Alexander something better to worry about. And he'd let her deal with Wolenczak how she saw fit. Unfortunately, for the time being, at least, it looked like she'd have to humor them both. For now, she had more important things to worry about. The reception with the scientists being one of her foremost concerns. Something about all four of them made her uneasy. Malcom was a quack, and she wanted to know what Deon had been thinking when he'd hired him. Murphy, as far as she could tell, was skittish. She couldn't stand skittish men. For all intents and purposes, Ayyash was a slut. As for Atkinson... For one of the few times in her life, Sydney Arkara drew a blank. She'd have to keep close eye on _that_ one. * * * * * O'Neill was _not_ enjoying himself. Here he was at a reception, supposedly in his and the other scientists honor, and he was wedged into a tight, shadowy corner. *Just like every _other_ party I've ever been to.* He had managed to work himself into earshot of Bourne and his date, or whoever she was. Bourne was repugnant to O'Neill, but when Deon worked his way through the crowd to Bourne, O'Neill decided to investigate. The three moved so that they were standing slightly around the corner from O'Neill, enough so that only Bourne and Deon were visible to him. "Mr. President," Deon gushed. "It's so good to see you again." Bourne smiled. "The feeling is mutual." Bourne pointed at someone behind the wall. "May I introduce my Chief Advisor, Sydney Arkara?" Bourne's "date", the stunning, raven-haired woman who'd met the scientists at the airlock, held her hand out to Deon, who kissed it lightly. O'Neill had to fight the temptation to gag. "Alexander," Deon said suavely. "You've always had excellent taste in women-- and advisors." *And prisoners,* O'Neill thought darkly, thinking of Henderson's stay in Macronesia. "I'm flattered," Arkara said with a laugh. O'Neill could see Deon turn slightly. "I'm afraid we haven't been introduced, Mr..." Apparently, someone else had joined the threesome. Someone who was trying to stay out of sight. *Someone _else_ trying to escape Dr. Ayyash?* O'Neill could only hear a murmured reply, said too softly to be intelligible from where O'Neill was standing. Still, the murmur was somehow familiar. O'Neill was so absorbed by trying to place it, that he barely noticed when Arkara left. "She is such great help with my affairs," Bourne said, sounding totally serious. "She doesn't look too bad in that dress, either." Subtle was something that Deon most certainly was not. "But tell me, he _is_ the defector that everyone is in such an uproar about?" O'Neill felt confused. _What_ defector? "Of course not. He's a _political refugee_. Macronesia doesn't harbor fugitives." O'Neill stifled a disbelieving laugh. "Of course not. But, let's get down to business, shall we? When can I expect the return of my scientists? They _do_ have other projects, you know." "I also know that all of their projects combined won't make you as much money as this one will...even if you were only paid half of what was originally agreed upon." It was obvious to O'Neill that Deon was being baited. "Half?" Deon fell into Bourne's trap, hook, line, and sinker. "Always the businessman, eh?" Bourne laughed. "I was only illustrating a point. But, really..." As Bourne and Deon got to talking, O'Neill decided to go in search of Macronesia's Chief Advisor, and her pet defector, whoever he was. * * * * * Sydney Arkara watched the exchange between the nervous teen and the tipsy scientist with amusement. She found it hilarious, the way Wolenczak was carrying on about Malcom's work. Even more ridiculous was that Malcom actually _believed_ the boy's prattle. "So, you wrote that paper on resistant viral strains last year?" Wolenczak actually sounded interested, if such a thing was possible. "You read that?" Malcom had a grasp of the obvious second only to one Defense Advisor Nicholas Schwartz. "It was fascinating. Especially your theory that megadoses of benzene can be used to fight resistant strains of certain viruses. I've never heard anything so...intriguing...proposed before." *Preposterous, you mean.* Even someone who had as little scientific training as Arkara had put up with would know that Malcom's theory wasn't worth the paper it had been printed on. "Most people don't realize that." Arkara started as she heard her unspoken statement inadvertently responded to. Malcom continued. "What did you say your field was?" Malcom's words had long before started to slur, now they all but ran together. "Computer science." "Well, perhaps you should consider switching to microbiology. We could always use someone capable of grasping the subtleties..." Arkara tuned out their conversation, not wanting to be forced to hear their witless prattle. She was so bored that when Schwartz approached, she actually almost _wanted_ to talk to him. She was shocked to realize this. *You're getting soft, Sydney dear.* "You see?" Schwartz's practically legendary ability to state what was in plain sight seemed as firm as ever. "He's already managed to infiltrate them. Before you know it, he'll--" Arkara cut him off. "I wouldn't be so sure of that. He's only a child. What can he possibly do? And we know that the real threat is elsewhere." *We just don't know where.* Not that she'd admit that, not even to Schwartz, who all ready knew. "Then why isn't he in prison? Why isn't he being interrogated?" If it had been up to Arkara, the boy would have been confined the moment he'd stepped into Macronesian territory. But it had been Bourne's decision, and to protect herself, Arkara had to protect Bourne. "Not so loud, you fool!" She lowered her own voice. "He's had his freedom of movement limited-- I have him under surveillance. Besides, both the president and myself feel that--" Schwartz actually dared to cut her off. "Neither of you is thinking with a clear head. The boy is dangerous! He's a computer expert. He practically designed the computers aboard the _seaQuest_!" She didn't waste the breath to point out that Wolenczak _had_ designed the supersub's computers. "Exactly," she said. Schwartz's blank look said that he didn't understand, and she'd have to spell it out for him, as usual. "He's a genius. He also has the ability to gain access to any and all of the UEO's databanks." "But look at them." Schwartz gestured towards the two scientists. "They just met a few minutes ago." "They're scientists." It was inconceivable that Schwartz couldn't grasp such an elementary concept. "Not from the same field," Schwartz protested. "For all we know--" "I've had Malcom checked. He's clean." Did he think that Arkara didn't know her job? Just then, Bourne, Deon, and Torville walked up. "And where is our young friend?" Arkara had noticed in the past that the president always liked to have both the first and last words. It irritated her no end. "Having a conversation with Dr. Malcom," she answered, pushing her annoyance aside as her gaze fell on Torville, who was regarding Bourne with something akin to jealousy. "Don't let him out of your sight." Bourne sounded deadly serious, as always. Arkara nodded absently, as Torville said something about Malcom's credentials. Arkara was too busy watching the situation unfolding around Malcom and Wolenczak. * * * * * O'Neill was walking past Malcom, who was talking to a thin blonde man. The person had his back to O'Neill, yet was still somehow familiar. Just as O'Neill noticed this fact, and started to reflect on it, he was rudely interrupted by Malcom grabbing him by the sleeve. "And this is Dr. Steven Atkinson, our biochemist." Malcom pulled O'Neill around to face the blonde. O'Neill was barely able to stifle a gasp, thanks to "Atkinson's" reappearance. "Steve, this is Lucas Wolenczak. He's read my work." O'Neill was speechless. Of all the people he knew, Lucas was the last person he would ever think would be in Macronesia. Then he realized why the teenager was there. _The defector._ Lucas must be the defector that everyone had been mentioning all night. "It isn't that hard to believe," Malcom said, slightly exasperated. "Some people keep up with modern science." O'Neill couldn't respond. He was still battling inside, as to whether Lucas could really have defected. It seemed impossible. "Pleased to meet you, Doctor." The way Lucas said it, with a slight emphasis on "his" title, made O'Neill think that maybe Lucas had expected to see him. But only Section Seven knew of the mission. Which meant Lucas was working for Section Seven. O'Neill realized that he had to leave before he blew someones cover-- either Lucas' or his own. "Not to be rude, because I'd love to continue this conversation, but I really have to be going." O'Neill tried to leave, but the pair of arms that wrapped themselves around his waist stopped him. "I've been looking for you all night!" It was Ayyash. "Where have you been hiding yourself?" O'Neill moaned inwardly. "Oh, yes." Malcom sounded as though he wanted to wash his hands of both Ayyash and O'Neill. "Mr. Wolenczak, this is Dr. Katrina Ayyash, project biologist." "Pleased to meet you," Ayyash said, never directing her attention away from O'Neill. O'Neill felt more embarrassed than he had for a long time. Even worse was the fact that Lucas was a witness to it. Of all the people O'Neill knew, Lucas was the least likely to let him live Ayyash down. O'Neill was proven correct sooner than he'd thought. With just the slightest mischievous glint lighting his blue eyes, Lucas asked exactly what O'Neill had hoped he wouldn't. "Are you two..." "No! Absolutely not!" That had to be one of the cheapest shots O'Neill had ever heard Lucas take. "Not yet," Ayyash purred. "Not _ever_," O'Neill said firmly. At first, he'd enjoyed Ayyash's attenitons. Now, when they had more important issues to attend to, they were a annoyance. And not a mild one. "Don't be so sure." The thinly veiled promise in her voice was enough to make O'Neill acutely nervous. Fortunately, Deon's arrival stopped that topic of conversation dead. He was surprised to realize that he was glad for his "boss'" interruption. He silently promised himself that this would be bot the first and last time it would ever happen. "So glad to see you're getting on." O'Neill wondered if there was anyone at the reception who wouldn't be more than glad to get in a shot at him. Malcom gestured to Lucas. "Have you met?" "Briefly." "He's obviously brilliant." It surprised O'Neill that it had taken Malcom so long to realize that. Then again, with the way his words were slurred and he seemed to be swaying, he might be a bit more drunk than O'Neill had initially suspected. "Perhaps President Bourne could be convinced to allow him to join our staff full-time? Perhaps with us in the labs?" O'Neill nearly flinched at the suggestion. If he and Lucas worked together so often, one of them was bound to slip. Bourne's stepping in killed that idea. "I think not. He's far too valuable where he is." The way Bourne talked about Lucas as though he wasn't there told O'Neill that Lucas was being used as a tool. "By the way," Bourne asked Malcom. "Where is Dr. Murphy?" It was a good question. O'Neill hadn't seen the naive scientist for hours. "He's in his quarters," Malcom answered. "The boy can't hold his gin." By the way he was swaying on his feet, O'Neill would've been willing to bet that Malcom couldn't, either. Bourne made a show of checking his watch. "Mr. Wolenczak," he said. "It's getting late, and you've a busy day tomorrow. Ms. Arkara, will show you to your quarters." As Arkara took Lucas by the shoulders and steered him out of the room, O'Neill reflected on what had just happened. The fact that Bourne had just sent Lucas to bed indicated that he was more a prisoner than a guest. *Standard operating procedure,* O'Neill supposed. "I'm pretty tired myself," O'Neill announced, picking up on the idea nonetheless. "I think I'll just go take a shower and go to bed. See you tomorrow." O'Neill escaped as soon as possible, but he still heard Ayyash as she spoke. "I think I'll be on my way too." O'Neill all but ran down the corridor. * * * * * O'Neill left "Atkinson" in the other room as he took a shower. Finally, he felt clean. He caught a glimpse of something in the other room as he opened the door a crack to grab his robe. *What the--?* Wearing only the short robe-- which was feeling shorter by the second-- O'Neill walked out of the bathroom to face exactly what he'd feared. Or, more accurately, who he'd feared. Dr. Katrina Ayyash, clad only in a gossamer nightgown, lay on his bed. She stood at his entrance. At once, O'Neill decided to keep his eyes front-- and most emphatically not centered. "Dr. Ayyash?!? What are you doing here?!?" In retrospect, the answer was obvious, but "Atkinson" had deserted him, leaving O'Neill to fend for himself. "Waiting for you." She smiled at him. "You've been avoiding me Steve." She walked towards him, forcing him to back up. "Well, I...uh...I've been busy." By this point, O'Neill was shaking to an almost visible degree. If ever he'd have been more than happy to turn over control of himself to Atkinson, it was now. "You know, with the project." She had him backed up against the wall. "I've been busy, too," Ayyash said sadly. "But, even at the party, you took off in such a rush." She started to run her fingers up his chest. O'Neill started sweating as his body betrayed him. "I just want to... know you better." She had opened the top of his robe, and pushed it off of his shoulders. O'Neill tried, but found that he couldn't stop her. "Wha-- What do you want to know?" he stammered. *Smooth, Tim. Really smooth.* "Everything," she said slipping her hands around his neck, and then starting to kiss it, all the while pressing herself against his chest. Her kisses felt like liquid fire. "Well, I went to... uh... Stanford University," he said, thinking of Lucas' appearance at the reception. He'd felt more infinately comfortable with that surprise than he did with this one. "I got a doctorate in biochemistry--" his voice cracked. O'Neill hated it when that happened. "Really? How fascinating." Ayyash had worked her way up to his ear, which she chewed on lightly. "Isn't it? My doctoral thesis was on this very idea, a substance that mimics carboxyl groups. I suppose that's why I was hired." Concentrating on something else, anything else, seemed to help. "Mine was on hormonal changes and their effects on the nervous system." O'Neill's hormonal changes were definately having an effect on his nervous system. All he said was: "That sounds like fun." What a time for Atkinson to show up. "Oh, it was. I'd be more than happy to show you just how much." She pressed against him even harder. He tried to speak, to tell her no, but she kissed him, full on the mouth. Why, of all times, did a beautiful woman have to fall madly in love with him now? Why never when he was himself? Why never when he could enjoy it? O'Neill grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her away, much to his body's displeasure. "Stop!" *Don't you dare,* his body whispered. *Shut up!* his mind ordered. "But," she said, pouting slightly, "I haven't even started yet." She hadn't started? How was that possible? He was afraid to know. "Well, don't. I can't let myself be distracted. For the good of the project, I can't get personally involved. With anyone." Ayyash looked rather sad. "I see," she said as she picked up a robe that O'Neill had been too busy to notice. "All business, and no pleasure, eh?" She turned to leave, but stopped when she reached the door. "Just remember, Steve Atkinson, that the project will be over soon... and then we'll be free to make pleasure our business." *I wish,* O'Neill thought. "Until then," Ayyash continued, "Hands off. I understand. Good night, _Doctor_ Atkinson." She walked out with one last smile. O'Neill stared at the door for a moment, then walked back into the bathroom. *I need another shower,* he thought. *A very _cold_ shower.* TO BE CONTINUED... Copyright 1996 Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie =========================== PART 7 ===================================== Disclaimer: The following story belongs to Rachel Brody and Melissa Beattie. Duplication is _strictly prohibited_ without their permission. For the sake of sanity, please refrain from posting or sending this to others without their permission. Send Questions, comments, and constructive critiscism to: bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Introduction: This story takes place after "Weapons of War". The story is set up, to some degree, in "Fusion", "Kaos Theory", and "Cost of Living", which are also by Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie. "Trouble in Paradise" (part I) By Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Part 7 of 24 Chapter 7: Deon International's Macronesian Headquarters was a huge building. With computers everywhere. For a hacker like Lucas, it was paradise. *A _former_ hacker,* he reminded himself, *But just for this mission.* The walls were literally packed with machinery. Heaven in Hell. It was an interesting concept. "So.." he said, "This is where you...?" "This is purely an administrative office," Torville said quickly. Lucas nodded, although he knew that was impossible. No one kept this much hardware around for administrative duties. Despite himself, he let himself drift over to one of the computers. Not so far, however, that he was out of earshot of Bourne and Deon. "Are you sure that you want him around?" Deon asked. "He's harmless," Bourne replied, sounding amused. They were buying his act. Good. He started typing. He might learn something to send to Chandler. Besides. He _liked_ hacking computers. For good causes, of course. He was so engrossed that he barely payed any attention to the maglev door opening next to him. He heard the feet hitting the floor as their owner walked toward Deon and Bourne. "Mr. Deon," a warm male voice came. Deon sounded annoyed. Lucas, however, felt himself being tugged away from the computer by the voice. He'd heard it before. A long time ago... "Dr. Malcom asked me to requisition another case of--" Lucas whirled as the voice registered. "Mark?" The last Lucas had heard, Murphy had still been at Arizona State! Murphy's expression as his eyes fell on the teen was one of pure and total _shock_. "Lucas?!?" he asked incredulously as he approached. Murphy held him at arms' length, looking him over. "You haven't aged a _day_." Lucas chose to ignore the observation. He was used to it. "You're working here?" Lucas asked, unable to totally keep his shock in check. "You left academia? What gives?" What Lucas was really asking was how a gentle man like Murphy had fallen in with Deon and Bourne. "The two of you know each other?" Deon asked, sounding somewhat concerned. "Lucas and I attended Stanford at the same time." Murphy turned to Lucas, smiling warmly. "I still owe you for getting me through Calculus III. The stuff still confuses me." A curious expression flitted across Murphy's face. "But what the hell are you doing here?" Lucas wasn't exactly sure how much Murphy knew. As a student, he'd always been the one the others played practical jokes on--until they realized that it was no fun because Mark barely ever realized they were making fun of him. Once they had, they'd left him alone. As another outsider, Lucas had felt a certain kinship with the shy student. Murphy had never outgrown that initial naivti. *Look who's talking,* Lucas thought wryly. Still, he decided to play it safe and state the obvious. "Having a tour." "Okaaay..." The way that Murphy drew out the word indicated that he suspected something more. "Did you hear about our breakthrough?" Breakthrough? Lucas didn't have to be a genius to know that a breakthough of _any_ kind could only be bad news for not only hismelf and Ford, but also O'Neill. The sudden though of his commander made him sick. He hardened himself to it, however, and asked a question he knew Mark wouldn't be able to answer. "No. What breakthrough?" "Well, Dr. Malcom thinks that--" Murphy began. As Lucas had suspected, Deon didn't let Murphy get far before he cut in. "It wouldn't interest you," Deon snapped, cutting Murphy off. "Dr. Murphy," he said, turning slightly, "Put in the request with my secretary." Murphy looked a bit crestfallen by Deon's dismissal. "Yeah. Sure." He turned to Lucas. "See you around, Lucas. Keep in touch." Murphy glanced back only once as he walked away. "We should go," Bourne commanded. Lucas followed, mind spinning. Ever since Hyberion, he thought, things had been changing faster than he could believe. The world had gone haywire. First, Captain Bridger had retired, then Krieg had become a mercenary, then Lieutenant Brody, who he'd always thought was too strong to die, was cut down, then Bridger sabotaged _seaQuest_, then brought himself and Ford and Dagwood into Macronesia on a mission for Section Seven to cover up atrocities, then Section Seven wormed its way back into his life by forcing him to "kill" one friend and "kidnap" another, then he found Murphy rubbing shoulders with the likes of Larry Deon and Alexander Bourne. It was enough to make him wish he'd never come out of stasis. Not that he'd had a choice in the matter. Just then, their arrival at a large door halted Lucas' thoughts. The door opened into a world of computers. "Whoa..." Lucas was awestruck. He'd never even considered that somewhere in the world could be a storehouse of computers this size. His mouth was watering, his heart aching. He could _feel_ the blood pounding in his fingertips. He desperately wanted to touch, if only for an instant, the shining monitors, the immaculate keyboards, the massive databanks. To feel the keys clicking in rhythm beneath his fingers as he uncovered secrets that he could only begin to fathom. This room... This was the stuff that dreams were made of. "A nice little collection," Bourne said, breaking into Lucas' thouhgts. "Don't you agree?" For a moment, Lucas was speechless. He could barely breath. This was past anything he'd ever thought possible. The sheer volume of silicon that was packed into the room... This place made _seaQuest_ look like an Apple IIe. In his entire life, Lucas had only seen one other computer that had affected him in this way. And CENSYS wouldn't be around for over a century. "I'll say," he finally choked out. He'd been so taken with the room that he hadn't noticed Deon and Torville leave. He was still wasn't noticing much. "You could coordinate the entire UEO defense fleet from this room." He couldn't rip his gaze away from the computers. He wondered if Bourne was planning on letting him near them. Or mayeb this was some new, bizarre type of torture. Show the whiz kid the computers than take him out of the room. It took all of Lucas' will power to keep himself from rushing forward and logging on. "Not exactly," Bourne said, glancing at the others. "_Un_coordination, on the other hand..." Bourne's meaning, suddenly and abundantly clear, cut off Lucas' longing for the machinery before he knew what had happened. "You want me to hack the UEO Defense Net?!? Even _I'm_ not that good." The computers were all but forgotten as Lucas began to wonder how on earth he was going to convince Bourne of that fact. "You'd better be," Schwartz said menacingly, "Or else." Lucas had noticed a few things about Schwartz: the man was nearly completely incompetant, neither Bourne nor Arkara (who was still giving Lucas the heebie jeebies) paid much atttention to him, and he liked making threats. Baseless ones. More exasperated and frustrated-- and tired, he supposed-- than scared, Lucas shook his head and looked at Bourne. "Look, Mr. President," Lucas tried to explain, "Tell your Defense Advisor that it just can't be done! Not be me, not by anyone!" *At least,* he amended silently to himself, *not yet.* Bourne looked thoughtful. "Necessity is said to be the mother of invention," he said cryptically. Was Lucas being threatened? He knew that his next words could send him tumbling down from his current position of relative safety-- an odd term at nest for his situation-- into one he knew he'd enjoy _much_ less. He took a deep breath and forced his blood to stop pounding in his ears. "No." Bourne raised an eyebrow. He obviously wasn't used to being told no. "Sir," Lucas continued, not wanting to offend the man who was currently in posession and control of his life, "With all due respect, you don't get it," Lucas tried to explain. He had an aching feeling he wasn't doing very well. "This is the UEO Defense Net. Not some college Gradebank." How could he make Bourne see the difference? "They've got encryptions, ICE, watchdogs, firewalls, alarms, trackers..." He tried to think of more, but failed. "And that's only the stuff I know about." And he only knew about them because they'd gotten in his way dozens of times. The UEO wasn't all that willing to put out specs on their security lockouts. That could turn out to be a problem. "Try anyway," Schwartz ordered. Lucas resisted the urge to turn around and tell Schwartz to shut up. Bourne sighed. "It would be such a shame if we had to--" "Alexander," Arkara interrupted sharply, "Don't frighten him. After all, he's only a boy." Lucas had lost count of all of the times since he'd arrive that he'd heard the good cop/bad cop routine from the two of them. It was becoming a recurring theme, and one that was making him very uncomfortable. There had to be some reason as to why they were using it to an almost excessive degree. What disturbed him the most was that, earlier that morning, he'd almost found himself in a position of _trusting_ Arkara. That he could be caught off-guard like that scared the living hell out of him. But for now, he feigned confusion. "If you give me a minute or two, I don't have a problem with exploring..." Chandler had said a database would be set up for this eventuality. "But," Arkara protested, "I thought you said you couldn't do it?" He sighed at the condescention. "Let's find out." Lucas quickly created a mini-directory that would filter all of the information he was able to gather on the Macronesian computer designs through to his e-mail account on the internex. He'd forward the message to Chandler once he got back to his quaters. Then he got started. It was easier than he'd thought. "Okay," he reported, "I'm past the initial sweeps, but they aren't disabled, so I'll have to be careful." Unbeknownst to them, Lucas had entered the disinformation database. "Well, disable them," Schwartz ordered. "Not unless you want to be found by the dogs...can't give 'em anything to aim for. Damn it, this thing reads like stereo instructions! Who designed these keyboards?" It was all nonsense, and it sounded like something out of an old spy movie. Lucas could almost see the senario playing out in his mind. The Hero, surrounded by the Evilbadguys, faking his way through nonexistant security clearances in order to stall for time. Fortunately, neither Bourne nor Arkara nor Schwartz seemed to notice. "Yes! I've been accepted. We're into the mainframe." Lucas wondered what the next step would be. "Begin downloading their defense strategies," Bourne ordered. "What?!?" Lucas could do it, of course, but if he accidently found the _real_ files, as opposed to the fake ones, the UEO could be in some serious trouble. "You heard him," Schwartz said. Lucas began to wonder if the man could say something that wasn't a threat. A bad threat, at that. "I already explained," Lucas insisted, "I can't do that." Can't, shouldn't, won't... What difference did it make? Either way, he was in for it. Arkara was instantly at his side, purring over his shoudler in a way that made the hair on the backof his neck stand on end. "Divided loyalties, eh?" "No..." No longer was this a game, and no longer was it reminding Lucas of old movies. "Then do it!" Schwartz ordered. Lucas stood up and leaned over the terminal to face the three Macronesians. "This isn't a case of divided loyalties, Mr. President. It's impossible to break that ICE!" It was insane to even try it. But there was no way to convince the Macronesian President of that. "There's no such thing as an impenetrable computer!" Schwartz shot back. "You want to give it a try?" Lucas invited condescendingly. He knew Schwartz would never make it. "Be my guest. But when the UEO shows up in force, don't say I didn't warn you." At least watching Schwartz try to hack through something Lucas didn't even want to try would give him something to watch for the next few days. Or weeks. Schwartz almost gave Lucas his wish. "Fine," he said as he grabbed Lucas by the arm and shoved him toward the wall. "I will. And when I--" "You heard him, Nicholas." Lucas looked up at the calm words. Bourne was _agreeing_ with him? "What?!?" Schwartz practically shouted. Lucas was just as shocked. Bourne was practically grinding his teeth together in rage. "I am not going to debate my decisions with you." Schwartz immediately looked away. "Yes, Mr. President," he said sullenly. Bourne seemed to sense Lucas' fascination with the disagreement. "Sydney," he said to Arkara, "Perhaps now would be a good time for that..." He let the sentence trail off. Arkara smiled, seeming to understand him perfectly. "Mr. Wolenczak," she ordered, "Follow me." Lucas followed her as she left the room. He was almost more afraid to be alone with her than with Bourne. * * * * * As Lucas looked at his guide, he felt even more nervous than he had while trapped in the closed computer room with three of the most ruthless people on Earth. The fact that he had no idea of where he was going or why only intensified the feeling. The silence stretched. Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. "What's going on?" Her answering smile, one of the first that had actually reached her eyes, did little to ease his discomfiture. "You'll see," she said as they approached a door. Lucas had a fleeting hope that a genuine smile from Arkara was a good sign. But then they entered the room. Not a good sign, he thought. A bad sign. In fact, one of the worst. In the large room, Lucas saw more intruments of pain and suffering than he'd ever dreamed possible. He couldn't repress a shudder. Arkara walked over to an intercom. "Bring him in," she said into the tiny microphone. "Who?" Lucas was almost afraid to ask. He was even more afraid to know. "Stop asking questions." Arkara's smile this time was anticipatory, and slightly predatory. "You'll find out in a minute." Just then, the door opened, and Lucas' heart dropped through the floor as he saw who had been shoved in the room. *No... * * * * * Commander Jonathan Ford fell to his knees after being shoved through the door. He was yanked roughly to his feet and shackled to a machine Lucas had tentatively identified as some type of neural stimulator. There was a tray of syringes next to the machine. "You want me to watch while you interrogate him?!?" Lucas knew that he'd never be able to just stand by and let that happen. Not to anyone. "Not exactly." Lucas felt a momentary relief. "I had a slightly more..." she stopped, seemingly considering her words. "A slightly more active role in mind for you." She selected a syringe from the tray. "What do you mean by `active' role?" She couldn't mean what he had the feeling she meant. "He's been a bit reluctant. President Bourne decided to give you a chance to convince him to act in his own best interests." There wasn't much of a chance of that happening. Ford would rather die than betray the UEO. Lucas found that the likeliehood of the aforementioned event occuring increased by a hundredfold as Arkara placed the syringe in his hand. "You..." He trailed off, unable to believe this turn of events. "You want me to torture him?!?" No one had told Lucas that he'd have to do anything like this when he'd been given the assignment. "The correct term is `interrogate'. Torture implies unnecessary brutality," she corrected. "This is necessary?" Lucas felt sick to his stomach. This couldn't be necessary. *God I want to go home I want to wake up and find out his is all a bad dream damn Section Seven I hope they burn in Hell I want to go back to the _seaQuest_ she doesn't honestly expect me to do this...* "You seem reluctant," Arkara observed, breaking into his thoughts. "Why would that be?" Because he just couldn't. That was why. Because he wasn't a sadist and seeing other people hurting hurt him too. He couldn't say anything aloud. He was unwilling to trust his voice. "Is there some reason that you want him unhurt?" "Uh..." He closed his eyes and forced the word out. "No." "Then why are you hestating?" She looked searchingly at him. "Maybe," she said slowly, dragging every word over the coals, "you'd rather I conduct this interrogation by myself." If Arkara got her hooks into Ford, she'd kill him by inches. *What the hell am I thinking?!?* he demanded of himself. Ford was going to live no matter what because this was was only a dream and it was going to be over soon and people couldn't die in dreams and besides it wasn't really happening because this didn't happen to the Good Guys in real life everything always turned out okay didn't it? It didn't matter. As Ford himself had said, the mission was of paramount importance. Lucas steeled himself, and looked Arkara straight in her cold, onyx eyes. "No. That's okay. I think I can handle it." He grabbed Ford's arm-- *I can't do this don't make me do this God help I can't hurt him like this I can't I can't I--* --and tried to stick the needle into it. At first, he couldn't force his hand to move. Ford knew it. He locked his gaze with Lucas'. Blue eyes-- *--can't I'm sorry Commander please forgive me oh God don't let this really be happening I'm so sorry this isn't happening it can't be this is impossible I want to go--* --met brown, and Ford gave him a barely perceptible nod. Lucas forced himself to-- *--home somebody save me and don't let them make me do this I can't do this I don't want to be here damn Section Seven damn them for making me do this I hope Tim is alright I don't want to die I don't want to--* --inject his-- *--kill him don't make me make it go that far you can't make me hurt him like that I'm not like you I don't want to see him in pain don't make me stay and watch--* --commander. The needle broke through the skin. For the barest instant, Lucas could feel Ford's blood pounding. For the barest instant, Lucas though he was going to be sick. The barest instant stretched into an eternity. "If he doesn't begin to respond within three seconds," Arkara was saying. "Turn this dial up one notch and activate the electrodes. Every time he refuses to respond, turn the dial another notch, and for an additional five seconds." While Lucas heard her instructions, nothing Arkara said penetrated the horror he felt. What he'd done kept running through his head. Over. And over. And over. Like an instant replay. He was only dimly aware of what was happening around him. Thank God. "What are the defensive capabilities of the _seaQuest_?" Arkara's question snapped Lucas out of his fog. The mere mention of his ship always caught Lucas' attention. In this case, however, he'd rather have stayed unaware. He was aware of Arkara glaring at him. After a moment, he realized that three seconds had passed, without any answers from Ford. She was looking at him because he'd failed to activate the...the...whatever-it-was. *no i cant dont make me do it i--* "For your sake," she said dangerously. "I hope you misunderstood my orders." He opened his mouth to point that out, but found that his throat was dry and his heart was pounding too loudly, with terror, for him to say anything. Arkara smiled cruely at him. Lucas' stomach churned. He knew what she was going to do. He couldn't watch. But he had to. "Let me demonstrate." She pushed Lucas to one side and pressed the activator button. Ford's response was a sharp, pained gasp. "Do you understand?" He understood. *I understand now let me leave and dont make me do this again I cant.* "Yeah, " Lucas replied heavily, turning to Arkara. "I understand." He understood. He understood that if he ever got his hands on Montgomery... Arkara turned back to Ford. "What are the defensive capabilities of the _seaQuest_?" Again, Ford didn't answer. Lucas almost wanted him to. *please answer don't make me do it please* They waited. Lucas prayed. Either God didn't hear him, or God didn't care. Ford remained silent. Arkara turned to Lucas. "It's been three seconds," she reminded him. She looked meaningfully at the activator. Lucas nodded, and closed his eyes. Forgive me. Lucas pressed the button. Ford gasped in intense pain. It was _nothing_. Not compared to what Lucas felt. Ford soon caught his breath. He looked at Lucas. "Traitor!" *nottruenottruenottruenottrue...* Both he and Ford knew it. That didn't matter. Lucas felt a knife drive itself into his heart. Twist. Pain. "Again," Arkara ordered. Lucas had no choice. He pressed the button. END PART ONE TO BE CONTINUED... Copyright 1996 Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie =========================== PART 8 ===================================== This is a continuation of Trouble In Paradise. Originally, the story was based on a four-part script that Melissa and I wrote. Therefore, each part has a different title. Disclaimer: The following story belongs to Rachel Brody and Melissa Beattie. Duplication is _strictly prohibited_ without their permission. For the sake of sanity, please refrain from posting or sending this to others without their permission. Send Questions, comments, and constructive critiscism to: bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Introduction: This story takes place after "Weapons of War". The story is set up, to some degree, in "Fusion", "Kaos Theory", and "Cost of Living", which are also by Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie. "AKA" (part II) By Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Part 8 of 24 ** * * * * * Show the way to go home. I'm tired and I want to go to bed. ** * * * * * Chapter 8: It had been a hard day. Bourne had woken up before four am, and it was almost eleven pm now. He wasn't in the best of moods, either. Wolenczak was becoming more trouble than he was worth. The UEO Secretary General had called at 4:15, to discuss possible extradition. If Bourne hadn't been so sure that the boy was a plant, intended to throw off his searching, he would have obliged. But then, young Wolenczak _did_ have his advantages. The UEO, having touted his skills for years, knew what a precarious position they were in now. The slightest wrong move, and Bourne would force the boy to unencode every sensitive file, every databank. In short, everything. And the UEO knew it. His intercom burst into static. He pressed the key. "I thought I had asked that I not be disturbed," he said, his tone vaguely annoyed. His secretary answered him. "I know, but Mr. Wolenczak is here to see you." That was a horse of a different color. "Send him in." Within seconds, the doors opened, and the boy entered. "Have a seat." He did. Lucas wasn't sure of exactly how to behave. It wasn't every day that he was summoned to the office of a dictator-president. "There was a memo... Did you want to see me?" "I wanted to congratulate you on your interrogation. I've had soldiers who couldn't do as well after years of training, yet you insist that this was your first experience in information extraction. *That's because I never would have thought that Commander Ford was going to hold out,* Lucas thought. "Would that half of my soldiers could do as well, there would have been no need for you to defect. We would have conquered your UEO long ago." Something in Bourne's tone made Lucas flinch. _His_ UEO After everything he had done to make this man trust him, he had failed. He was still a traitor, and Bourne was intelligent enough to know not to trust a turncoat. Even the afternoon's ordeal with Commander Ford hadn't been enough to convince him. And if that was true, Lucas didn't know what he would be able to do. He knew that he couldn't do that again. He just couldn't. He would rather die. Bourne leaned closer, fighting to keep the absurdity of the situation concealed. He was being confronted by a boy, younger than twenty, who he knew was a plant. If the boy were half as intelligent as rumored, he would know that Bourne knew that he was a plant. And if he knew that, there was no reason for him to keep up the charade...unless the other agent was closer than Bourne realized. But he knew that this was what he was meant to think. In order for their mission to succeed, Bourne had to be either completely unaware of the situation, or had to be so paranoid that he wouldn't see something going on right under his nose. Neither of which was going to happen. "Sir, I..." Lucas wasn't exactly sure of how to phrase his complaint without offending Bourne in some way. And offending Bourne wasn't something he wanted to do. Not after what he had seen-- *and helped,* he thought-- happen to Commander Ford. "You what?" "I've noticed that I'm being followed. And I discovered a monitoring device in my room this morning." "My secret service." Lucas was shocked. "You mean you knew about it?" Bourne nodded. "Ms. Arkara assigned several of my agents to keep an eye on you-- for your own protection, of course. Intelligence reports indicate that the UEO is somewhat "bent out of shape" over this entire affair. They have, reportedly, hired several assassins and spies to harm you. We're just trying to make sure that doesn't happen." *Bullshit.* Lucas knew that the UEO didn't sanction assassinating people. But he couldn't let Bourne know that. "Well then...Mr. President...thank you for the trouble." "It's no trouble at all. I'm just pleased to know that you're safe." Lucas had a hard time forcing himself not to gag. "You're _quite_ valuable to us, Mr. Wolenczak. We wouldn't want _anything_ to happen to you." The knowledge was less than reassuring. * * * * * Ford's body still ached from the day's ordeals. He had never thought that Lucas would be able to force himself to carry out the orders that Arkara had been giving. He had half-expected for Lucas to crumble. He had half-expected to die. He should have put a little more faith in Lucas. As he lay on the thinly-padded shelf that was his bed, staring at the ceiling, he suddenly heard a voice. A familiar voice, muffled by the walls. "Just five minutes...that's all I'm asking for...please?" It was Lucas. By the sound of it, he was pleading with the guard to let him into the cell. Ford wasn't sure if he wanted that to happen or not. Not only would Lucas coming in be a huge security risk, but it would remind him of home, and the people there. Of Lonnie. "Fine. Five minutes, to the dot." Ford heard the lock cycling, and felt a sudden rising panic. Lucas had already made it through what had to be one of the more difficult aspects of the assignment, why was he coming here now? He could only hurt their chances of escaping. *Stuff it, Jonathan. You're not going to escape, and you know that. He's only hurting his own chances. Yours-- however meager they may be-- aren't going to be affected at all.* The opened, and Lucas entered. He looked upset and exhausted. "Commander?" he whispered. A million thoughts crashed through Ford's mind at once. He wanted to rush to the bars and hold Lucas' hand, soothe the teenager and tell him that everything was going to be all right, and that both of them were going to get out of here and everything was going to be fine. That would be murder. He could tell from Lucas' voice how miserable he was. That knowledge made it even harder to keep the anger and resentment in his tone. He knew what he had to do. "Come to gloat?" he asked roughly. There was no way to tell Lucas that he didn't mean it. He prayed that the ensign would know. Lucas stepped back, eyes wide with shock. "About what?" It had been hard enough to direct his anger at Lucas instead of Arkara during the interrogation. But to keep doing it now was worse than the actual torture. It was impossible to keep treating Lucas like an enemy. All he wanted to do was reassure the ensign that everything would be fine. "I heard the statement you made." He thrust a contemptuous chuckle through his lips. "I'm sure that'll let a lot of people sleep easier, knowing you sold out." *Lucas stay in character don't slip up don't give them an excuse to kill us both don't screw up...* Ford found himself cursing Lucas' humanity. A defector wouldn't be expected to care about the man he'd brought to the enemy. "Commander, it's me." Lucas looked as though he half-hoped that Ford couldn't recognize him. "Don't fool around...I've only got a few minutes." Staring at Lucas through the bars of his cell for another five minutes without being able to offer him some sort solace would drive Ford insane. But he had managed to disregard everyone else's feeling so far. *God, Lonnie, I miss you so much...* "Don't worry..." He wished he could have left it at that. "You'll see me tomorrow-- at the next interrogation." He was twisting the knife that Lucas had been so expertly impaled with, and it hurt him more than anyone would ever know. "Commander, I only wanted to apologize." Why was Lucas doing this to himself? Ford thought he had made it clear that he wouldn't bear any hard feelings toward him for anything he had to do for the sake of the mission. "I had no idea that they..." He looked away, raw betrayal reflected in the tears that filled his crystal blue eyes. Ford could feel his anguish metamorphose into mild fury. Lucas was going to blow their cover if he didn't do something quickly. "Well what did you think happened to hostages?" Lucas looked as though Ford had punched him in the stomach, but relentlessly, he pressed on. "You sold out, and now you're going to have to face the consequences." It was all Ford could do to say the words. "But--" Lucas sounded so vulnerable that Ford felt as though his heart would burst. "Look, I don't need any sympathy from you." He steeled himself before continuing. "Traitor." The impact of Ford's words forced Lucas' eyes away. Ford was thankful for that, if nothing else-- he didn't think he could have stood being under the searching gaze of the ensign for another moment without breaking down. When Lucas finally looked back, his eyes were on the brink of overflowing. "Commander," he began, voice shaking, "maybe you don't feel like listening to me. I don't blame you after what I did today." If Ford hadn't been afraid of making the situation even worse, he would have ordered Lucas to stop then and there. But what good was telling the boy to stay in character if he didn't do it himself? Lucas pushed on, through the loneliness that shone through so easily in his voice. "But I'm going to apologize whether you like it or not." He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry." "It's too late for that," Ford said, wishing that Bourne or Arkara instead of Lucas could be on the other side of the cell bars. It would have made what he was about to say endlessly easier. "I just hope that being strung along by Bourne and his lackeys it what you wanted. I hope it gets you what you deserve." Lucas cringed back from the cell bars, looking as miserable as he would had Ford had punched him in the stomach. Lucas' mouth opened at the same time as the door. Lucas' mouth abruptly shut. The door didn't. The soldier who had been guarding Ford's cell for the past hours entered. The rough manner in which he grabbed Lucas by the arm and started dragging him towards the door made it difficult for Ford to retain control of himself. The last thing he heard before the door slammed shut was Lucas, frantically pleading with the guard to be allowed to stay. * * * * * Hudson hadn't gotten a decent night's sleep since he had found the body. He hadn't been altogether pleased when Secretary McGath had called him to the Hawaiian Headquarters of the UEO. As far as he was concerned, he had better things to do than cater to the whims of a blustering politician. However, rank did have it's privileges-- the ability to order your subordinates around being one of them. That explained why Hudson was sitting in the white UEO car that McGath had sent to _seaQuest_'s docking port that morning. The car pulled to a slow stop in front of the building. The swarming horde of reporters that converged on him as he exited the vehicle was another factor in his discomfort. He managed to shove through them. He hated the press. With a passion. Yet there he was, in the midst of them, shoving his way up the stairs of UEOHQ. He ignored all of their questions, as well as all of the reporters. Except the three who were allowed to enter as well. The same three who rushed aboard his maglev car. Hudson sat, wondering if maybe they'd leave him alone. He wouldn't have bet on it, but there was no harm in wishing. As the three also sat, however, he felt his hope dying. "Aren't the doormen supposed to keep you people out?" he asked in annoyance. One of the three, a slim brunette woman, flashed a professional-- and totally insincere-- grin. "Captain Hudson, I presume?" Hudson was in no mood for questions. "Is that any of your business?" The reporter gestured to an awkward young man holding a video camera. "Captain," she said warningly, "That camera is running." Hudson shot an annoyed glance at the camera. "Uh," the gawky young man who was holding it said, "Actually, Ms. Dunn, It's not." Hudson knew he'd heard that name before. Maybe on the evening news? Several years ago? She might have been one of the people who had been covering the Olympics a couple years ago. Then it clicked, and Hudson had some idea of just who he was talking to. "Brooke Dunn?" he asked. "From the World News Net?" By all reports, Dunn was as tactless and pushy as they came. Dunn smiled superiorly. "None other," she answered self- importantly. "And this is Lila Bryant," she said gesturing to the young blonde loaded down with equipment. "My new assistant." Hudson's sympathies went out to the mousy young woman who was hanging back from her superior, sitting just the other side of the cameraman. Mercifully, the doors opened onto the top floor of the building. Hudson walked briskly towards his meeting, the trio of reporters following in his wake. When he arrived, Hudson saw that Secretary General McGath had all ready arrived, as had an unfamiliar red-haired woman. Something about her gave Hudson the creeps. The redhead pointed at the reporters, who had followed Hudson in. "What the hell are they doing here?" Hudson was just about to ask the same question. McGath gestured to Hudson. "Captain, take a seat," he ordered. Then he gestured to the trio. "They're the official media liaisons to the UEO," he explained. Hudson was starting to feel slightly annoyed by McGath's attitude. It was a feeling he'd had often. "They're reporters. I thought this was being kept confidential." McGath looked pained. "Captain, please...be careful what you say." Hudson's mood moved from "slightly annoyed", to "quite irritated". "I will not. If you want to invite them along for the ride, I suppose I'll have to grin and bear it...but I'm not sacrificing my principles to do so. Anything I was going to say before is going to be said now, whether they're here or not." While he was speaking, Hudson saw that the trio of reporters had started to set up their equipment. Dunn turned to him. "Captain, please face this way." Hudson was surprised by this request. "What?!?" He turned to McGath. "You're broadcasting this?!?" Dunn shrugged. "Procedure." "To hell with your _procedure_, Ms. Dunn!" Hudson exploded. "This is an official UEO operation." Instead of replying to Hudson's challenge, Dunn turned to her assistant. "Lila, did you get that?" "Yes, ma'am," Bryant said timidly. "I told you," Dunn said to her. "Call me Brooke." She turned to McGath. "These kids," she shook her head helplessly. "We get them right out of school, and it takes a month or two to get them to behave normally." *How awful for you,* Hudson thought, amazed. How had the conversation turned to this?!? "Mr. Secretary," Hudson said, politeness oozing from his tone, "Would you be so kind as to tell me exactly what's going on?" "This is getting out of hand," the redhead interjected. "I'd like to begin the mission as soon as possible." "Mission?" Hudson asked, feeling totally baffled. "What mission?" This was the first he'd heard of a mission. "Ms. Montgomery," McGath said to the redhead, "Please explain the mission to the captain." Montgomery glared in the direction of the reporters before shaking her head. "Not in front of the press." Realizing the proverbial gold mine she'd stumbled across, Dunn turned to the cameraman. "Roll camera, Doug." Dunn turned to Montgomery as he did so. "Ms. Montgomery," she asked, "Is there something you'd like to disucuss?" "No," Montgomery said coldly. "What mission," Dunn persisted, "were you about to explain to Captain Hudson?" Montgomery glared at the camera. "Somebody get that damned contraptioe!" "Now, Ms. Montgomery," McGath tried to soothe, but was cut off. "The people," Dunn said archly, "Have a right to know." "The hell they do!" Without further ado, Montgomery walked over to the cameraman, pulled the device from his hands, and flung it to the floor, where it crashed into several large pieces. "Hey!" the man cried. "That was expensive!" To everyone's shock, Montgomery pulled back her fist, and punched the boy, bloodying his nose. Dunn quickly pulled her man away, and started loading him and Bryant down with their equipment. "I think that's plenty," Dunn said quickly, "Thank you for your time. We'll be leaving now." The trio fled faster than Hudson would've thought possible. He turned to Montgomery. He didn't know what to make of this woman. She was wearing civvies, so she couldn't be military. However, she oozed the impression that she was someone important--someone you didn't question. Hudson hated dealing with people like that. He could only hope that his impression was wrong. "Thank you," he said, too politely. "I was afraid that I would have to get involved..." He smiled at her. Time to see how far she could be pushed. "...And _I'm_ armed." It was a ridiculous assertion-- both of them knew that he wouldn't have used a gun on the press. The UEO had enough problems as it was. She smiled back at him. It didn't touch her eyes. "What makes you think I'm not?" McGath held up a hand to halt Hudson's reply. "Okay, then. Now that the two of you have managed to annihilate our public image," He covered his eyes with his hand for a moment. "We might as well get down to business." Hudson finally sat down. "And that business would be?" "The _seaQuest_ is going to Macronesia." Macronesia. The flood of memories began. Henderson reporting that she was going after a Spindrifter vessel. The Macronesian border patrol taking her prisoner. His security chief blaming himself for not being there. Going with McGath to "talk" with Bourne. The deal Bourne and McGath had struck-- the deal Bourne had broken. The conviction, the cell, the coldness, the Spindrifter children. The execution the gunfire the running the airlock the laser cannon the dead Macronesian guard the shuttle the medbay the medical report the autopsy the-- *"I can't figure out what he meant. Do you know?"* *"It's a statement of honor."* "Not with me in command, it's not," he thundered, dampening down the memories. "Exactly," Montgomery said. "I'm relieving you of command for the duration of the mission." Hudson blinked, still not completely recovered from the remembrances. "I beg your pardon?" Montgomery rolled her eyes. "Did you not hear me?" "I heard you loud and clear," he growled. He turned to McGath. "Who is this?" "This is Kayla Montgomery," McGath informed him. The name meant nothing to Hudson. "The Regional Coordinator of Section Seven." Hudson realized that the gut reaction he'd had to the woman upon entering the room was one he should have paid more attention to. Especially since she'd have free run of his ship. TO BE CONTINUED... Copyright 1996 Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie =========================== PART 9 ===================================== Disclaimer: The following story belongs to Rachel Brody and Melissa Beattie. Duplication is _strictly prohibited_ without their permission. For the sake of sanity, please refrain from posting or sending this to others without their permission. Send Questions, comments, and constructive critiscism to: bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Introduction: This story takes place after "Weapons of War". The story is set up, to some degree, in "Fusion", "Kaos Theory", and "Cost of Living", which are also by Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie. "AKA" (part II) By Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Part 9 of 24 Chapter 9: The door to Henderson's quarters were pushed open slowly, as though someone was hesitating to disturb her. There were only a few people left on board who would care that much about how she felt, and two of them were on duty. That left Tony. Even though she didn't want to talk to anyone yet, she knew that Piccolo would only bother her for something important. And it wasn't really a bother, just something of a minor chore. She didn't want to have to collect herself and look composed for someone else-- not after what had happened. "Come in." Her voice was shaky, and had a teary quality to it. Anyone could have told that she had been crying. Piccolo pushed the door the rest of the way open, and Henderson saw that he was carrying a box. A heavy box. *No...Tony, don't. I can't take seeing any more...* She didn't say it out loud, but only because she could tell that he felt bad enough. He set the box on her chair and began to pull out stacks of paper. A small, red, spiral-bound notebook. A sketchpad. A few pictures. One of the fluttered off the pile, and fell face up on the floor. It was a picture of O'Neill's Academy graduation. He was standing between two people, who Henderson assumed were his parents. Piccolo saw it, and saw her reaction, and quickly scooped it up and placed it on the top of the pile, face down. He picked up the notebook and flipped it open. "October 23, 2032: I don't know what's happening to us. Lucas told me about Barrabas, and what they were doing there. About the atrocities. About how the Captain used to be in Section Seven. About how the mission was just to cover up the whole affair. "It gnaws at me, that I trusted him. That I didn't realize that he was capable of such things. Normally, I'd never believe this sort of thing, but I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Lucas was telling the truth. It scares me, that I would have followed him to hell and back. That I still would, even knowing what he did. "Sometimes I wonder if he knows that. You can see it in his eyes when he looks at Hudson, on the bridge. He thinks we've all deserted him. And with the exception of myself, and possibly Lucas, I think he might be right. "Dagwood won't even talk about it, not that I blame him. The last time I brought up Bridger's name, he walked out of the room. When I went to Commander Ford and asked him what had happened-- not that I didn't believe Lucas, I just needed some sort of confirmation that Lucas hadn't, I don't know, made some kind of horrible mistake. He just looked away and said he couldn't talk about it. I couldn't tell if that was because he was under orders, though, or if it just hurt him too much. I didn't think anything could. "I guess, deep down, I still don't. He's so lucky. To be able to shut himself off like that. On command. And then open himself back up like nothing ever happened, and all you've got to show you that it did is the feeling that, somewhere along the line, he wasn't telling you everything. "Sometimes I feel like I've closed for so long I've forgotten how to open. Maybe I never knew. "The last time I lowered my defenses, even for a moment, they cut the limb out from under me. I knew Captain Bridger wasn't a hostile target. Ford knew him for as long as I did. Even if the rest of the senior staff wasn't ready to press the point, he should have at least said something. "I don't know who to trust anymore." He shut the notebook and blinked rapidly. "There's a piece of dust or somethin'. In my eye." She nodded, even though she knew it wasn't the truth. If he wanted to try and fool her, he had the right. He gently placed the notebook back in the box and sat down on the bed beside her. "It happened again." He was staring at the floor. "And there's more. He wrote stuff." He looked at the pile of loose papers that he had put on the nightstand. "Short stories...and poetry. And there're a couple sketchpads, all full of drawings-- me, you, Darwin, Fredricks...everybody. And we never even knew..." He looked up at her, right into her eyes, and she could tell how upset he was. For once, he wasn't trying to hide how he really felt. No jokes, no smart remarks, not even an uneasy smile. She had never seen him like this before. "How could we have missed it? Almost two years, and we never even suspected... It's just not fair." He was really crying now, not even trying to hide it behind blinks anymore. She had never thought he could be hurt like this. To her, he'd always been unsinkable. *So was the _Titanic_. And look what happened to it.* She reached out and wrapped her arms around him, and they sat holding each other and crying for an eternity. * * * * * Later that day, Hudson sat in his wardroom, with an impatient Montgomery pacing nearby. "Madame Coordinator," he said enjoying her discomfort, "Perhaps you'd like to sit down?" She whirled on him. "I don't see why you want to include your officers in this." Hudson had half-expected this response. "My crew and I have a close relationship. The three officers who I'm going to assume are somehow connected with this are their friends and colleagues. If you can truthfully tell me that this briefing and this entire ordeal have nothing whatsoever to do with them, then I'll gladly reconsider my decision." Montgomery opened her mouth to respond, but, fortunately, Henderson, Piccolo, and Kimura walked in, before she had the chance. "Please," she said thinly, "Have a seat." The three officers sat. Piccolo and Henderson exchanged curious glances, while Kimura sat, staring attentitvely at Montgomery. "Now," Montgomery continued, "I'll get right to the point. As Captain Hudson has been informed, _seaQuest_ is going to Macronesia." Henderson went dead white. "Macronesia?" she whispered incredulously. Piccolo, who was seated next to her, reached over, and covered her hand with his, trying, it seemed, to comfort her. Montgomery ignored her completely. "There are a few things that you should all be aware of. First of all," she said gesturing to the blank screens inlaid into the bulkhead, "I'd like you to direct your attention to the monitor." Hudson, along with the others, saw for the first time, an image of Lucas. He was standing at a podium, delivering a speech denouncing the UEO. Hudson felt as though a pit had formed within him, sucking his reality into it's depths. "You expect me to believe," he said, once he'd recovered, "That my Science Officer said that?!?" It was insane. Montgomery nodded. "What's not to believe? The facts speak for themselves." By this time, Piccolo had recovered enough to speak. "Are you sure that was Lucas?" he asked, voice laden with astonishment. Montgomery rolled her eyes. "It was broadcast yesterday on all of the major news channels." She sounded for all the world as though she was enjoying herself. Given the sadistic nature of many Section Seven agents, Hudson knew that was entirely possible. "President Bourne followed it up with a short speech concerning his deep sorrow that the UEO had lost the faith of such a-- and I quote-- `intelligent, talented, and competent young man.' He was not, however, going to consider turning Mr. Wolenczak over to UEO custody." She paused and took in a quick breath before continuing. "Needless to say, the press has been having a field day with this one." Kimura turned coolly to Hudson. "What does this have to do with the _seaQuest_?" she asked. Hudson supposed that he should have been glad that she was asking him instead of Montgomery, aknowleging his authority instead of blatantly ignoring it. Montgomery cleared her throat. "_I_ have full authority here," she informed them. Henderson turned to Montgomery. "You're kidding." "Lieutenant," Hudson intervened. "That's enough." Hudson hated having to appear as though he supported Montgomery, to even a small degree, but this was the chain of command. And as much of a headache as it was giving him, he couldn't risk having Montgomery decide to put him ashore for the mission. Montgomery continued her speech. "As I said, I have command. The _seaQuest_ has been granted full Embassy status for the duration of the mission." As she prepared to go on, Hudson noticed a rather large gap in her briefing. "You still haven't told us what the mission is." "Officially," she replied after a moment, "We're going to attempt to retrieve Mr. Wolenczak. Preferably without resorting to force." "Without resorting to force?" Hudson repeated skeptically. In Macronesia, that would be nearly impossible. "If he refuses to return to the UEO," she explained, "Force will necessitate itself." "With all due respect--" Henderson began. "What's the _un_official reason?" Hudson finished. There had to be one. Organizations like Section Seven couldn't survive without some sort of hidden agenda. After another long moment, Montgomery spoke. "I have several officers stationed in Macronesia." At least that made sense. "If they're still alive," she continued, "We'll retrieve them." Hudson felt an ember of anger spark, to become an angry fire. _seaQuest_ was capable of so much more than these ridiculous passenger missions. "This ship is _not_ a passenger shuttle. I refuse to let you--" "_seaQuest_ is a floating embassy," Montgomery interrupted. "At least, until we return. And _you_ aren't in charge of it." She turned to the others before Hudson could respond to her insult. "That will be all. Oh-- and President Bourne is going to hold a reception-- in honor of our arrival, I believe. I want all of you present." *Well,* Hudson thought angrily, *we don't all get what we want, do we?* At the moment, there was nothing Hudson wanted more than for things to be normal again, whatever normal was. "Regulations state that while in hostile waters, one senior officer is to be aboard at all times." Hudson's gaze shifted to the former Chaodai. She hadn't spoken since her earlier question, and he'd almost forgotten that she was there. Now, however, he was glad to know that she seemed to be on their side. This time. Montgomery frowned at the information, even though she must have known of the regulations. "Fine then," she allowed grudgingly. "Choose someone to stay. But the rest of you will come." She looked hard at each of them in turn. To their credit, none of them looked away. Montgomery seemed disappointed. "Dismissed," she ordered. Without a single word, they left. Montgomery began packing up her things. Hudson stood, and walked over to her. "Yes?" she asked curtly. "I just wanted to remind you," he said quietly, "that while you may command the mission, and you may have the authority to issue orders to the crew and to myself, _I_ command the ship. And if I see one problem that may endanger her or her crew, I will order the _seaQuest_ to defend herself." He stared directly into her blue-gray eyes. "And the crew will follow _my_ orders." He paused for a moment, waiting for a reaction. He was disappointed. She didn't bat an eyelash. "Is that clear?" Montgomery nodded slightly. "Very." She pushed past him, and walked out of the wardroom. Hudson stood there for a moment, savoring the quiet. Then he sighed, something that he'd been doing a lot of lately, and walked back into the chaos of the rest of the world. * * * * * Piccolo hated making a nuisance of himself. The problem was that it was so easy. Especially when the person he was annoying was as easy to bug as Dr. Perry. "Are you sure that the fingerprints matched?" he asked her. He was getting sick of asking her these questions, all relating to how Tim had died. It was painful enough for him to think about his friend without having to pester her about the gory details. At the moment, he was trying to get enough evidence to prove that Lucas hadn't been the one to pull the trigger. So far, it wasn't working. Perry nodded, even though her eyes never left her paper. Piccolo got the distinct impression that he was being ignored. He hated being ignored. "What about DNA?" She nodded again. "Weren't there any weird results?" he insisted. "Mr. Piccolo, you haven't been given authorization for that information," she said, finally looking up. That was news to him. "Since when do you need special authorization to see medical reports?" "Montgomery's orders: Nobody sees them without her clearance." Piccolo had a hard time digesting that Hudson would have accepted a directive like that without a fight. "Does Captain Hudson know?" Everyone on _seaQuest_ had a breaking point. Unfortunately, it looked like Piccolo had just passed Perry's. She shut off her computer monitor and looked up at him furiously. "I don't know. Why don't you go ask him so that I can get back to work?" If there was one thing that Piccolo had learned about medical staff on Navy ships, it was that it was stupid to get on their bad sides. It looked like he'd just passed "bad side" and moved on to "most-likely-to-be-voted-to-burn-in-Hell". He left the Medbay before she had a chance to explode. * * * * * Henderson's eyes ached from staring at the computer screen for hours on end. In fact, they hurt so much, that she almost missed something odd. Almost, but not quite. She whipped out her PAL and punched in Piccolo's code. "Piccolo." "Tony," she said, "It's me." "Lonnie, hi," he answered. "Did ya find anythin'?" _That_ was an understatement. She glanced back at the data on the screen. "Yeah." A hell of an understatement. She took a deep breath. "You'd better get down here ASAP." "I'm comin'." * * * * * As usual, Piccolo didn't wait for her to respond to his knock. "What did you find?" he asked, slightly out of breath. Henderson pointed to the screen. "It's Tim's computer." Piccolo's eyes narrowed in confusion. "What about his computer?" She indicated a line of code. "Lucas' access codes were used." "But," Piccolo said, sounding completely lost, "What was Tim doing with Lucas' codes?" Henderson rolled her eyes, trying not to scream. At some times, Piccolo was a little dense. At other times, he was a _lot_ dense. She should probably spell it out for him. "No, that's not what I mean. Think about it." She paused, but Piccolo still didn't get it. "Captain Hudson found Tim's body by his computer. So he must have been using it when he died. But," she paused to emphasize the point, "The last time Tim's codes were used was over twenty-four hours before he went on leave." Henderson could see Piccolo trying to assimilate this new information. Thankfully, it didn't take long. "So Tim found something he wasn't s'posed to?" The confused tone of voice was still there, and she knew that no matter how hard Tony tried, he may not connect this one. She shook her head. "That still wouldn't explain Lucas' codes. Maybe Tim wasn't the one using the computer at all. Maybe someone else was." "But who else would have Lucas' codes?" Piccolo asked. The question had been bothering Henderson. "No one. He changes them once a week." She'd learned that once when they'd been running diagnostics on the computer/hardware interfaces in engineering. They'd needed a set of codes, and both of them had to know them, so Lucas had volenteered his. When she'd asked why, he said it didn't matter anyway-- he'd change them before the week was through. She'd thought it a waste of time, since they were complicated alphanumerics that would be near to impossible to crack, but he'd showed her how easily it could be done. As a hacker, she supposed Lucas had a truer appreciation of the vulnerability of computer systems than she had. "But Lucas has his own terminal," Piccolo pointed out. "Why would he use Tim's?" That was another point that had been nagging at the corner of Henderson's mind. "He wouldn't unless something was wrong." *Unless he was _doing_ something wrong.* "Lonnie, he committed murder and kidnapped--" Mercifully, Piccolo cut himself off before he could say his name, but Henderson heard it anyway. *Jonathan. He kidnapped Jonathan...* She heard him take deep breath. "Something _is_ wrong," he quickly ammended. "But it doesn't make sense," Henderson said, trying to distract herself from what Tony had just said. "Why wouldn't he do this from his _own_ terminal?" Piccolo was silent for a moment, and Henderson could almost see the gears trying to work. "To keep his codes from bein' discovered maybe?" His tone indicated that he thought it as unlikely a reason as she did. "They can be traced from anywhere." She shook her head. "No... there's got to be more to it." Piccolo nodded, and they got to work. When he left to go on duty, she barely noticed. * * * * * Pain. Every nerve fiber in Ford's being still seared him with every tiny movement, despite the fact that it had been hours since his last "session" with Arkara. And Lucas. Ford worried about the boy, even more than he worried for himself. He couldn't help it; something about Lucas inspired paternal feelings inside of him. Ford had never considered himself the "father" type, but, his relationship with Lucas far transcended the usual commander/crew relationship. *So does your relationship with Lonnie.* The thought rose unbidden into Ford's mind. He'd had to fight against thinking of her, about what she must be going through, never having had the opportunity for good-byes, their last conversation having ended in a fight... *Stop.* Reminiscing would only make everything worse. Knowing that didn't stop the almost overwhelming wave of homesickness from overtaking, then nearly drowning him. His rescue came in the form of a Macronesian guard, when he half-dragged Ford to his feet, and forced him into the interrogation room. * * * * * Henderson was just about to call up the data that had been flagged by the computer when there was a knock at the door. "Lonnie, it's me," Piccolo called before she'd had a chance to ask. "Come on in. I found Tim's file." It had been Piccolo's idea in the first place, the theory being that perhaps O'Neill had enemies from his past that would want to see him dead. That explanation was easier for both of them to accept than the story of Lucas' losing it. "What does it say?" Piccolo asked. He didn't have his glasses with him. Henderson read from the screen: "O'Neill, Lieutenant J.G. Timothy. Born May 28, 1992. Hometown: Detroit, Michigan. Father: O'Neill, Sean, professor of Latin at Michigan University. Mother: O'Neill, Grace, professor of mechanical engineering, also at Michigan University. Graduated from the Academy in 2011, with honors in linguistics. Served as ensign aboard the _Arizona_, later, the _Sumpter_. While on the _Sumpter_, he served as translator during the NORPAC/Japanese treaty negotiations. After promotion to Lieutenant j.g., he served aboard the _seaQuest_." "Not much there," Piccolo commented. "Maybe there's somethin' in his bio." Henderson looked up. Piccolo shrugged. "It's got all the real personal stuff they got on us, `steada just his service jacket." He had a point. Henderson punched up O'Neill's bio. "We'll find out." After a long wait, caused by the multiple security systems, bypassed by codes that Ford had taught her, the file came up. "Trained linguist," she read. "Speaks eighteen--" she broke off in astonishment. "Speaks eighteen languages, six fluently, twelve near-fluently. English, Spanish, French, German, Italian, Serbian, Latin, Greek, Russian, Chinese, Japanese, Swahili, Libyan, Danish, Arabic, Hebrew, Navajo, and Portuguese." Henderson looked up at Piccolo. "That's incredible." He nodded. "Wish _I_ could do that." She continued: "Avid writer. Has had several poems and short stories published under various pseudonyms during extended leave that took place from 2019 to 2021-- Tony," she interrupted herself as her eye fell on a title, "I _read_ that! It was _unbelievable_! I've been looking for something by the same author for years, but he just-- dropped out of sight!" She glanced at the screen. "I guess now we know why..." There was even more. "Look at this! Tim was a junior-high- school track champion." Piccolo looked stunned. "What?" "It's true," Henderson said, pointing at the screen, "He was considered a shoe-in for the National Junior Team, but he tore a knee ligament in a fall." She shook her head. This was all too much. Who was the man who'd called himself Tim O'Neill? Had she ever really known him? Had _anyone_? "I can't believe it," Piccolo whispered. "It's all so incredible..." He sounded as shocked as she felt. "Yeah," she agreed with a sigh. "Well," she began, changing the subject, "There's nothing here that could constitute a motive, I guess. Got any other ideas?" "Huh?" Piccolo still looked a little off-balance. "Oh, no, no ideas yet, Lonnie, but we'll figure it out soon, right?" She appreciated his optimism. "Right," she said, giving him what she hoped was a convincing smile. *I could use some convincing right about now.* * * * * * The airlock door opened. Lieutenants Pete Chandler and Leanne Michaels stepped into the shuttle bay. Chandler didn't know exactly why he and Michaels had been called to the _seaQuest_. The original mission specs had called for Montgomery's presence, and Montgomery's presence only. The two lieutenants were going to stay in Pearl Harbor while she came aboard and took command of the ship. Unfortunately, someone had been digging for information. That was something that was completely unacceptable. Chandler turned to Michaels. They'd been working together, under Montgomery, for almost eight months. She was almost like a little sister to him. Especially in the area of sibling rivalry. He wasn't exactly sure what he thought of her. Most of the time, she was a pain in the ass. Other times, however, it was nice to have her around. Even if she was a lot younger than he was. Not that he was especially old. He looked at her dimly. "Let's go," he said. She glared at him, not appreciating the informal order. Technically, she didn't take orders from him. But in Section Seven, technicalities didn't count for shit. Unless, of course, they benefited the organization. The fact that he had senority over her and could slit her throat while she slept meant more than the stripes on his sleeve. Of course, she could always turn the table on him and do the same. She did have an unhealthy obsession with knives, he'd often noted. Because of that, they had some sort of understanding. He couldn't have put it in words, but it worked. Luckily for her, however, she nodded. "Montgomery sent us our assignments." Like he'd needed the orders. He had been working long enough with Montgomery to know that she didn't care how he got the job done, as long as it got done, and well. One of the few things she wouldn't tolerate from her subordinates was failure. Chandler didn't mind that. He never failed. * * * * * They'd been through the personnel records, the service jackets, the computer logs, and just about every other applicable database. There was only one other place to go. Henderson steeled herself, and called up the autopsy reports. Piccolo stood over her shoulder, waiting impatiently. "Let's see," she said when the report came up. "It was a single shot to the back of the head. Death was immediate, due to the destruction of brain tissue." She shuddered. "At least he didn't feel it," Piccolo said grimly. Henderson realized something else. "But he also didn't see it. Tim never knew what was happening." The unfairness of it all made Henderson want to rip something into pieces. Or some_one_. "I guess that's why there's no adrenaline." She looked up at Piccolo's seeming non sequitur. "What?" He pointed at the screen. "Here, look. If he'd known what was happenin', he'da had adrenaline in his blood. Murder victims always have that, if they know." Henderson blinked. "Tony," she said, shaking her head, "You never cease to amaze me." He half-grinned. "Don't be too impressed. I got it off some old TV show." She should've known. "You're right, anyway." She looked further. "Lucas' DNA and fingerprints were all over the body." Piccolo chuckled. "Some genius. Didn't know enough to wear gloves." Henderson decided to ignore his comment. "I don't know. Something seems odd. Something about the positioning of the body..." Mentally, she reviewed the facts. The body had been lying back in the chair, and it hadn't been moved from the time of death. *Wait a minute...* "That's it!" she cried triumphantly. Piccolo's eyes narrowed. "_What's_ it?" "Tony, if Lucas was using the computer, and Tim walked in on him, why was Tim in the _chair_?" Piccolo thought about it for a moment. "But," he countered, "What if _Tim_ was the one usin' the computer? Lucas coulda walked right up an'..." Piccolo trailed off, seemingly unable to finish. "... Uh, did what he did, _then_ used the computer." She'd all ready thought of that. "He would've had to move Tim's body to use the terminal. Tony," Henderson clutched his hand. "I think we've got something." "What we don't have, though is a reason. Lucas wouldn't just do _this_..." he gestured to the monitor, "For no reason. If he even did it." "I don't know what Lucas did or didn't do, but I know that there is definitely something wrong with this picture." "Yeah." * * * * * Thanks to Michaels' computer skills, Chandler now had a name to attach to the breaks in security. Lieutenant Lenore Ellen Henderson. He was perusing her file now, trying to determine the best way to intimidate her into leaving well enough alone. Too much prying could result in an embarrassing situation for Section Seven. Until now, she'd kept out of the data that could be effectively termed classified. But by breaking into restricted data, she'd gone and damned herself. A thin smile traced Chandler's lips as he arrived at an interesting piece of trivia. "Leanne," he called across the room, to where Michaels was working at a computer terminal, "Guess what." She looked up, an annoyed expression on her face. "What?" she asked sarcastically, making it exceedingly clear that she didn't care one way or another. "Our amatuer hacker was the same lietuenant involved in the Spindrifter incident a few months ago." The everlasting clicking of Michaels' fingers against her keyboard paused for a moment. "She what?" she asked. He indicated a portion of the report she'd printed out for him. "Says so right here: `Spent several days in a Macronesian Prison as a result of being charged with tresspassing into Macronesian waters and espionage. Nearly executed.'" He looked up, still smiling. "I'll bet she had a lovely time over there." Michaels snorted. "With Bourne?" She shook her head. "You know his rep as well as I do." She stood, thinking, and walked to Chandler's side. "In fact," she said, a sadistic tone entering her voice, "I think I know how you can scare her off..." TO BE CONTINUED... Copyright 1996 Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie =========================== PART 10 ==================================== Disclaimer: The following story belongs to Rachel Brody and Melissa Beattie. Duplication is _strictly prohibited_ without their permission. For the sake of sanity, please refrain from posting or sending this to others without their permission. Send Questions, comments, and constructive critiscism to: bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Introduction: This story takes place after "Weapons of War". The story is set up, to some degree, in "Fusion", "Kaos Theory", and "Cost of Living", which are also by Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie. "AKA" (part II) By Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Part 10 of 24 Chapter 10: How any one person could complain this much was amazing to Torville. As he stared towards the young man on the other side of his desk, he wondered how long it would be before his patience gave out. "And then, he--" Thankfully, a mental "ping" went off in Torville's head. The allotted time for _this_ appointment had ended. He slowly rose out of his chair and pasted a phony look of disappointment on his face. It was an expression he had spent many hours mastering. "I'm sorry, Professor Murphy, but our time is up." Murphy looked surprised at being cut off in midsentance. *Does he really think I'm going to allow him to continue this meaningless prattle?* Apparently, he did. "But--" "I have the gist of your complaints." *How could I not?* After an hour and a half filled with Murphy's paranoia, Torville's own natural cautiousness was likely to become even more pronounced. That was something he couldn't afford. He walked to the door and opened it. "I just wanted to inform you of what's going on..." *You've informed me, you naive twit, now get the hell out!* "I found a small camera in my office this morning, and my computer is being monitored--" Anyone who would want to watch Murphy would have to be severely confused-- or mentally disturbed-- at least, in Torville's opinion. It was a good thing that Sydney tended to be a bit more forward-- at least, he thought she was-- or he would have been uncomfortable thinking of Murphy's predicament. "As are my--" "Professor Murphy, don't worry." *And don't continue to bother me with your inane paranoid delusions.* "I'll schedule a meeting with Deon this afternoon. I'm sure we'll be able to clear everything up." If not, at least it wouldn't be Torvile's problem any more. He politely but firmly ousted Murphy from his chair and shoved him out of the office, past his secretary, and towards the elevator doors. As they opened and Murphy stepped in, he suddenly resisted Torville's direction, until with a final shove, Torville managed to both push him into the spacious elevator and whacked the button that closed the doors. Even so, Murphy managed to get out a few last words. "Thank you, Mr.--" Blissfully, the doors slid shut, and he was gone. Torville slowly turned back to his secretary in overemphasized relief and exasperation. "If not for the money they were bringing in..." His secretary nodded in understanding. He thought for a moment, mentally reviewing what he knew of his schedule. He didn't need to know much of it-- that was why he had a secretary, after all. He looked up at her. "I'll need an appointment with Deon..." He should get it over as soon as possible, to get Murphy off his back. "For this afternoon," he tacked on as an afterthought. She smiled and nodded again. Just for once, Torville wished he had an intelligent being as a colleague-- or even an underling. Someone with whom he could discuss the headache he was beginning to get. Sure, there was always Sydney, but she was more the type to sympathize with power struggles and assassinations. Although he didn't like Larry Deon, Torville had no real desire to see his boss dead-- well, not usually. "Both of you are free this evening," she told him after a brief check of his schedule against Deon's. "I'll coordinate with Tamika." He muttered something about how the last thing he needed today was an appointment with Deon, turned to go, and was stopped when the secretary opened her mouth again. "Oh, and Ms. Arkara has an appointment with you in about--" As if on cue, the elevator doors opened and Arkara stepped out. Torville flashed her a debonair smile. She ignored it. Torville sighed. He had a feeling that his visit was going to make his talk with Murphy look like a day at the beach. * * * * * After dealing with Ford and Wolenczak for the day-- not that she hadn't enjoyed herself-- Arkara was in no mood to put up with Torville's flirting. She could tell that he was disappointed when she didn't acknowledge him. She stalked into his office and waited by his desk for him to catch up to her. He indicated the seat across from his own as he sat, which she calmly took. "In the future, you should probably wait to be formally admitted to my office like everyone else." Arkara hadn't expected that. Torville was one of the few people who almost knew her as well as she knew herself. That was one of the reasons that their "professional relationship" worked so well. Not to mention their personal understandings. "I am _not_ everyone else." Her voice was as angry as she could make it be, but with Dean that wasn't very threatening. He knew it, too. The hand that dropped itself on her shoulder was proof enough of that. "Of course, Sydney." There were only two men who could call her that on a personal level and not wind up dead on the floor within three seconds. Bourne's excuse was that he was her superior-- in rank, at least. In everything else, he was an insignificant piece of dust. Why, the idiot had even allowed himself to form an emotional attachment to her. Torville, on the other hand... As much as she would have liked to let the hand stay where it was, she had to set the parameters of her visit. She pushed it away gently, but put a certain amount of force into her tone of voice. "And I'm here on business, not pleasure." "What a shame." His voice echoed her thoughts as he sat in the chair on the other side of the desk. "Then how can I help you, Madame Advisor?" Dean's sense of humor, though not as dark as her own, was usually more than a bit amusing. Today, she wasn't in the mood for it. Under normal conditions, she never would have given an indication of her annoyance. Thanks to their relationship, her guard was down and she rolled her eyes. Waking up had been difficult enough-- Bourne was a morning person-- and she didn't need Torville's sarcasm on top of it. "President Bourne is getting impatient, and so am I." No matter what her estimate of Bourne's intelligence-- or lack thereof-- she had long since fallen into the habit of attaching her name to his statements. As he pondered her words, she realized that she was going soft on herself. Mixing business and pleasure was never a good idea, and she shouldn't do it. Bourne notwithstanding, because he was just a stepping stone across the river that was her ascension in the ranks, this was the first and only time that she ever had. It wasn't the type of mood that would jeopardize her career- -not unless Bourne found out (he could be so incredibly possessive) - and she wasn't about to let that happen. "So I've been told." *So that was what Murphy was doing here.* She had seen the doctor in the lobby, looking harried and upset. If he had been complaining to Torville, she could see why. "But really, Sydney...threats and monitoring devices? That shouldn't be necessary." She was insulted. If he was insinuating that she was careless enough to let someone catch her at monitoring them-- *especially someone as stupid as Murphy...* She had every right to be. "Leave deciding what is and isn't necessary to me." Again, she forgot herself. This time, however, Torville noticed it. "Isn't that Bourne's job?" He shot her an all-to-innocent glance. "Or has there been a change in command already?" How could he say that, in an unshielded place like this? If Schwartz, or God forbid, Bourne, caught a whiff of her plans... It could mean more than her life. Her eyes burned furiously at Torville, who still hadn't realized what he'd said or how close Arkara was to stalking out, stood and walked to the table that held a pitcher and several glasses. As he picked up one of them, along with the pitcher and began to pour, he suddenly looked up. "Have some?" He obviously didn't know how much anger his offhand remark had stirred up in her. At his apparent innocence, her fury lost its edge and she smiled. "Water? I didn't think you drank non- alcoholic beverages." "Only in private...wouldn't want to ruin my image, now would I?" She shook her head. Men could be so impossible. "I'm not thirsty." She let her expression harden briefly. "And I would appreciate that you refrain from mentioning my plans in public." Torville took a few seconds to finish pouring and take a quick sip of water as he sat back down. The coaster on which he placed the glass had the Deon International Logo on it. "You haven't altered them, have you?" "Of course not." She had been working towards her goal for years, and she wasn't going to stop just because of a few crinkles. "I'm looking forward to--" She stopped as she realized that she had almost said out loud what she had been so upset with Dean for saying only moments ago. "It's not bugged." She shrugged his comment off. "You can never be too careful." "Don't I know it?" Did he really? Dean had lived a sheltered life-- something she'd never had the luxury of possessing. "But really, Sydney...tell that idiot you work with to stop threatening my scientists." *Which idiot?* There were so many of them. "_Your_ scientists?" She said it with a brief smile. "Have you taken over already?" After all, turnabout was fair play, and the worst Torville would lose was his job. Torville feigned exasperation. "You know what I mean. Schwartz is getting in their way. They can't work under such close scrutiny." As he took a sip of water, she spoke. "I'll do what I can, but they need some encouragement." She knew how he would take the word. That was why she used it. And she wasn't disappointed. "Encouragement?" He almost choked as the word penetrated his cranium. He knew that her brand of "encouragement" wasn't usually the type that the encouragee enjoyed. She felt a glimmer of pity for the poor thing as she patted him lightly on the back to stop his coughing. "Not that kind of encouragement, silly." Although, she had to admit that it would be a pleasurable experience. Especially if she could manage to do it by herself. The last time she had performed an unsupervised interrogation had been years ago. The subject of her attentions had spent two days in a hospital, in the process of dying. She realized that she was smiling enigmatically and forced the altogether entertaining image of an agonized Murphy being forced into the neural exciter as she twisted the knob on the control panel to maximum output out of her head. "However," she continued, releasing a small portion of her mind to continue imagining the scenario, "another reception is being held when _seaQuest_ arrives." She had tried to explain to Bourne that he was too sure of himself, but he hadn't listened. *The bastard thinks he's invincible...well, let him. He'll be all the less prepared when I -* But she broke off. It was too dangerous to even let herself think something like that. "Surely they could take time off for that, couldn't they?" Torville shrugged, no doubt relieved that she hadn't admitted to a far-off desire to torture-- interrogate, she reminded herself sternly-- his employees. "I don't know about them," he said, beginning to smile suggestively as he leaned back in his chair, "but I may be able to get a few hours off." A warning signal went off in her head. Dean, although he was an adorable darling, wasn't one of the most subtle people she'd ever met. If he arrived at the reception, Bourne would know within ten seconds that he wasn't the only one with whom she was involved. Aside from being certain that Torville himself would find life much less enjoyable after something like that occurred, she knew that Bourne would never forgive her. And although she didn't give a damn about his forgiveness, she didn't want to be on his bad side, either. "No, Dean, I don't think that would be a good idea." *In fact,* she told herself, *it would be one of the only bad ideas I've ever known you to have.* "Why not?" He looked pitifully betrayed, as though he couldn't imagine why she wouldn't want his company. "You wouldn't get along with my...superiors." Although he appeared slightly miffed, Torville still made a half-hearted attempt to turn her dismissal to his advantage. "Plural? Is Schwartz that good at his job?" *Dean, if I didn't love you so much, I'd kill you for saying that.* As it was, she swatted his arm playfully, and grabbed him by the tie-- the one she had gotten him for their one-month anniversary-- and pulled his face close to her own. "Don't test my patience, darling." Their eyes locked for a fraction of a second before they kissed. When she ended it, it was clear from the expression on his face that he hadn't been ready for the conclusion. She took several steps towards the door, then stopped and gazed back at him. "Have your people contact my people," she said, assuming an official tone. "We'll do lunch." Then, letting a mischievous twinkle into her eye, "And then some." She left him staring as she left the room, the enigmatic smile back on her face. * * * * * Henderson was amazed. There was so much about Tim that she and Tony hadn't known. *That we never bothered to find out.* It wasn't as though they hadn't tried to get to know him. But O'Neill had always been reserved, and out of respect for his seeming desire for privacy, Henderson hadn't bothered him. *Or was it that I couldn't be bothered _by_ him?* That was ridiculous. She and Tim had been friends for a year and a half. They had been through thick and thin together. She would never have-- Her thoughts were interrupted when the door of her quarters opened without warning. Instinctively, she shut off her computer monitor, then stood and looked at the figure in the doorway. Chandler. Montgomery had taken a few minutes to introduce her lieutenants to the bridge crew when they'd come aboard. It had amounted to a "here they are, don't get in their way" speech. Henderson hadn't been planning on getting in the way. As she stared at the Section Seven lieutenant, an aching fear began to creep up her spine. Had he seen what she was doing? Had he been able to tell that she was looking at restricted personal data? *Stop it!* she commanded herself. *Cover it up! Don't let him see how nervous you are!* "Lieutenant Chandler?" She pushed the chair in and took a step towards him, trying to appear confident by feigning anger. "Didn't anyone ever teach you how to knock? He stepped closer to her, and she was intensely aware of the invasion of her personal space. It was uncomfortably imposing; coupled with the look in his eyes, it scared her to death. She took several quick steps back, trying desperately to put some distance between them. "What are you doing here?" She had to fight to keep her voice from trembling as much as the rest of her body. She stumbled backwards as he kept coming closer, and felt the edge of her desk as she backed into it. Her fingers wrapped themselves over the synthetic wood, knuckles whitening. He had her cornered, with nowhere to go. She was trapped. Chandler moved his face closer to hers. "I know what you've been doing." His voice was low and threatening. Although Henderson tried to look away, his eyes had hypnotized her: blazing, passionate fires burning beneath two deep brown pools of nothingness. She leaned backwards, wishing for some way to escape. "What are you talking about?" She almost cried out in surprise at the speed with which his hands darted out and pinned her own to the table, at the strength with which he held them there. They were like steel clamps. She could feel the edge of the desk as it began to cut into her skin. He wasn't fooling around, that was for sure. "You know exactly what I'm talking about." He was burning straight into her with his eyes...two bright stars of fury. "And if you know what's good for you, you'll stop." "Is that a threat?" Her voice wavered on the last consonant, revealing her fear. That wasn't something that she wanted to do. He leaned closer, whispering in her ear. "It might be." His breath was almost a caress against her neck. His grip on her hands relaxed, ever so slightly, and she toyed with the idea of trying to pull them loose. Then she saw the gun that he was wearing, holstered at the moment. She doubted that it would stay that way if she tried to escape from his grip. He smiled a half-smile that wasn't reflected in his eyes. A cold smile. Alarms klaxons began to go off in her head as his hands began to unentwine her fingers from the desk edge. She began silently praying. *Please... Somebody... Anybody...* She wouldn't be able to fight him off alone if he tried to attack her...or worse. She drew herself up, trying to take a deep breath without letting him see it. "I think you should leave." "To bad your vote doesn't count." The tone of his voice was cold and calculating. She didn't doubt that this encounter had been premeditated... She had seen him watching her. And Tony. Could this have something to do with their investigation? Or was Chandler doing this for some sort of perverse personal pleasure? "What's that supposed to mean?" Without considering what his response would be, the words left her mouth. She wished that she could have taken them back-- they only seemed to encourage him. "Don't be coy." His expression hardened as he took on a newer, more menacing tone. "It doesn't suit you." She didn't have a chance in a physical confrontation-- of that she was sure. There had to be some way out of this...a way that didn't lead to her being hurt. "I'm serious." And she was. She wasn't going to let herself be strung along in any more of these games. This was _seaQuest_. Not some Macronesian jail cell. She had friends here, and she wasn't going to get hurt. *I'm _not_ going to be hurt.* "Or I'll call security." He glanced over his shoulder, towards her bed. She felt her heart jump into her throat, until she realized what he was staring at. Her PAL. It was lying there, in plain view. She had no way of reaching it. He could see that. Her threat had been an empty one, and now he knew it. "With what?" He laughed lightly as her eyes blazed with a new fury. "Look, I don't know exactly where you think you get off barging in here like this, but if you don't leave _this instant_, I'm going to report you to--" "I don't this that it would be altogether..." His voice trailed off as he searched for the right word, and she caught her eyes drifting back to the gun, "_healthy_ for you to mention this little encounter to anyone." He leaned forward, almost whispering in her ear...so close that she could feel his breath on her neck...memories were flooding back, and she couldn't hold them at arm's length anymore. She was reliving what had been her own personal Hell... *"Share my life for a while..."* "Is that perfectly clear, Lieutenant Henderson?" *"I can protect you..."* "Let me elucidate." *"Let me save you, Henderson, Lenore..."* She couldn't breathe. She was suffocating. She needed air. Her chest was twisting, contorting, and her lungs were refusing to let her inhale. She felt the sting of angry tears in her eyes--the same sting that she had felt before, in a cold, dark, damp jail cell deep in Macronesia. With a monster as horrible as the one in front of her. A monster that she couldn't make herself forget. And then, all at once, they were gone. Someone had knocked on the door. God had seen fit to answer her unspoken pleas. "The door's unlocked." Those three words were full of more relief than she had thought herself capable of feeling. Chandler released her hands as the door opened. She could breathe again. It was Tony. He eyed them, and she could see the question written all over his face. "Is everything okay?" "I was just leaving." Chandler brusquely pushed past Piccolo. She thought he was gone, but he turned back before he was out the door. "Don't forget what I said..." Then he had left. Piccolo stepped towards her, but stayed several inches away. She wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. She needed someone to lean on...someone to hold her and tell her everything was going to be all right...but Jonathan was in Macronesia. *In the grip of a monster.* She collapsed into Piccolo, who seemed to know what she wanted-- no, _needed_ him to do. He put his arms around her, and she felt so safe. Nothing could hurt her as long as he was here. He wouldn't let anyone hurt her. Not ever. Tony would protect her. "What happened?" She was still sobbing as she forced the answer out. "Thank God you showed up in time." He pulled her back carefully, and held her by the shoulders. "Lonnie, did he-- Did he hurt you? Are you okay?" He truly cared, that she knew. He had never seemed so concerned about anyone other than himself. He was being strong for her, trying to be strong enough for them both. She caught her breath, and forced herself to stop crying. "I'll be fine...we've got to be more careful...they know." Piccolo didn't seem concerned with that, just with her. He gently guided her back down, so that she was sitting on her bed. He was crouching on the floor, looking into her eyes. When she looked back, she was amazed at how warm his eyes were. Not like- -not like _his_. "Did he threaten you?" She shook her head and wiped her eyes on the back of her hand. She could wash it later, but who had time for tissues at a time like this? "More like a warning." Or had it been a threat? *"If you know what's good for you, you'll stop..."* She had been too disoriented to remember clearly. And she could still feel his hands gripping her own, still see his face when she shut her eyes. She needed Jonathan...she wanted him so much...and even though Piccolo was trying to help... "We'd better go tell Captain Hudson." "Not yet..." She didn't know what was holding her back, except maybe the feeling that Chandler wasn't the type to make idle threats. "We need more evidence." Piccolo's brow knit as he held her at arm's length. "But if he was...harassin' you--" "Tony, trust me." She had to grin and bear it. She had done it before, and she could do it again. "Everything will be fine, as long as we're careful." Piccolo eyed her suspiciously, and she could tell that he was weighing her words carefully. He was like Jonathan in that respect: he would do anything to protect her. She smiled, and he slowly came around. "Fine...I guess we'll just need to be more careful." "Thanks, Tony." She looked at the portable computer he had been carrying with him, now lying on the bed. "What did you find?" Piccolo shrugged. "Nothin' much, really." Henderson felt her hopes fall. Given Chandler's "visit", she'd assumed that Piccolo had found something important. "Nothing?" Piccolo shook his head. "Nah. I just...had a feelin'." Henderson sighed. "Let's keep looking." * * * * * So much to do, and so little time. Hudson had been working steadily on his crew reports-- something he had always managed to put off-- since Montgomery had relieved him of duty. He wasn't enjoying it. The tedious nature of the reports, the necessity of calling up the same personal file over and over, the problems caused when he realized that there was a certain crew member he didn't actually know... All of those things made him glad when his PAL chirped, granting him a release from the monotony. He pulled it out, switched it on, and waited. "Captain Hudson?" "Mr. Piccolo? Can I help you?" Piccolo sounded immensely relieved. "Could I see you in your office? It's about Henderson." "Is something wrong with the lieutenant?" "I'd rather discuss it in person." Hudson glanced at the stack of reports. He was going to be busy for a while longer. "I can see you at 1400." *And if Section Seven wasn't breathing down my neck, it could be a lot sooner.* But Piccolo sounded satisfied with the arrangements, so Hudson returned to his work. As Hudson closed the channel, he felt the same chill up his spine that he always got when he was being watched. He turned towards the door and found himself proven correct. Montgomery's "aide", Chandler, was standing in the doorway. "Can I do something for you?" he asked curtly. "Captain, Ms. Montgomery would like to see you in her office." Hudson raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Her office?" he repeated incredulously. As far as he knew, Montgomery's only office was back in Honolulu. "We have converted several vacant rooms into a temporary office suite," Chandler informed him coolly. *Very temporary,* Hudson reminded himself. "I'm busy at the moment," Hudson said, returning to his work, unpleasant as it was. "Tell her to make an appointment." To Hudson's surprise, Chandler walked right up to the desk, and leaned over it, fingers cupped under the lip. "It wasn't a _request_, Captain." Hudson wasn't surprised. "I see," he said, rising from his seat, and walking out the door. Chandler followed a few moments later. *I'd rather do paperwork.* * * * * * Piccolo knew that Lonnie hadn't wanted to go to Hudson yet. But he didn't feel comfortable, knowing that Chandler was still at large. Still dangerous. He had puttered around for a while, trying to decide whether or not to report what he had seen-- which was really nothing. Chandler leaving Lonnie's quarters. Lonnie being a bit shaken. There wasn't any evidence that anything else had happened, or that anything would have happened. But then the other half of his mind began to argue, and it's points were strong. Lonnie had been so upset, almost on the verge of a nervous breakdown. The relief in her voice as she had said that the door was unlocked, and Chandler. Chandler's presence could have been explained away if it weren't for anything else. After all, he was Section Seven. And if Piccolo understood correctly, Section Seven was some kind of KGB secret police network. He could have been questioning her, could have been interviewing her, could have been-- *Been what?* But Piccolo knew the answer to that. He had see that kind of warning look in people's eyes before. It was better just to leave it that he'd had incredibly good timing. But what was he going to tell Hudson? * * * * * Leanne Michaels had never been nervous. It was an emotion that she felt was not only ridiculous, but pointless as well. But as she waited for Chandler to return, she came closer to nervousness than she'd ever been before. The door opened, and Chandler walked in. She turned, fury playing across her expression. "Took you long enough," she said, making it an insult. He glared at her, but didn't say anything. She sighed angrily. "Have you taken care of it?" He nodded, not bothering to remind her that, thanks to being promoted ahead of her, he seniority-- and she was coming dangerously close to insubordination. "It's done." His eyes narrowed. "And if _this_ doesn't convince him to mind their own business, we'll take a more forceful approach." Chandler wasn't a subtle person, that was for sure. She was about to point that out when the small speaker she'd set up on her floor suddenly sputtered to life. _"Make this fast. I have an appointment."_ _"With who?"_ Hudson had arrived at Montgomery's office. Michaels glanced towards Chandler, then back to the small reciever of the bug in Montgomery's office. She'd set it up earlier, with Chandler's assistance. It had been Montgomery's idea; a way from Michaels and Chandler to keep informed without constantly having to keep a com channel open. Unfortunately, Michaels reflected, the bug only worked if Montgomery activated it from her end. This bug, at least. She leaned forward, pushing Chandler out of the way to get closer to the tiny speaker. _"Why do you want to know?"_ asked Hudson's voice, irratated. Chandler sat back, shaking his head. "Seems to me that Captain Hudson--" "Shh!" _"That was an order, Captain,"_ Montgomery said. _"Warrant Officer Piccolo,"_ was Hudson's stiff response. Michaels looked up at Chandler. "Is this some kind of joke?" she asked. "This is--" Now it was Chandler's turn to tell Michaels to shush. Within moments, Michaels' PAL beeped. She picked it up. "Lieutenant Michaels, please inform Mr. Piccolo that Captain Hudson will be unable to make their appointment." Before Michaels had the oppertunity to respond, Montgomery had closed the channel. _"There,"_ she continued on the speaker, to Hudson. A brief pause, then: _"Well, what did you want?"_ came Hudson's voice. Montgomery's response was curt. _"I'd like to review our agenda."_ Michaels stifled a laugh, as did Chandler. Both were picturing the scene-- from what they knew of Hudson, he was probably fuming. "That's the problem with the Navy," Chandler said. "No patience." Michaels nodded in agreement. _"For that you interrupted my--"_ _"The agenda, Captain. Take a seat."_ Chandler raised an eyebrow. "She's ridiculous." Michaels nodded. "Absolutely." She took out her PAL and tapped in Piccolo's number. Chandler's brow creased. "What are you doing?" She made no sign of having heard him. "Mr. Piccolo, this is Lieutenant Michaels. Where are you?" A tinny voice came back over the channel. She recognized it as Piccolo's. "Captain Hudson's office. Can I help you?" He sounded confused. *Just wait till he sees what Chandler did,* she thought. "No," she said. "Captain Hudson ordered me to tell you that he'll be there right away, and you should stay put." "`Kay." She shut off the PAL and looked to Chandler. His expression was now one of comprehension. She sat down, ready to wait. * * * * * After Michaels' call, Piccolo stood in the captain's office, and tried not to worry. There had been something in the woman's voice...something that sent off alarm klaxons in the back of Piccolo's mind. _Beep...beep...beep..._ What the hell was that noise? Since it sounded like the noise was coming from the desk, Piccolo moved closer, hoping that Hudson wouldn't come in and find him poking around his desk. There was nothing on the desktop, nor was there anything on the shelves or chairs. That left the floor. Crouching down, Piccolo felt around on the floor surrounding Hudson's desk. Nothing. He stood, and, as he did, he noticed something under the lip of the desk. Bending over, he tried to see what it was. The instant he saw it, he knew what it was. A bomb. And the timer had the number two on it. "Oh, _shit_!" Piccolo tried desperately to run for the door, but, before he'd managed to do more than straighten, two seconds elapsed. The bomb detonated. The first thing Piccolo felt was the impact of himself and a bulkhead colliding. The second thing he felt was the heat of the flames as they rushed toward him. The last thing he felt was... Nothing. TO BE CONTINUED... Copyright 1996 Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie =========================== PART 11 ===================================== Disclaimer: The following story belongs to Rachel Brody and Melissa Beattie. Duplication is _strictly prohibited_ without their permission. For the sake of sanity, please refrain from posting or sending this to others without their permission. Send Questions, comments, and constructive critiscism to: bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Introduction: This story takes place after "Weapons of War". The story is set up, to some degree, in "Fusion", "Kaos Theory", and "Cost of Living", which are also by Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie. And neither author thinks that Lonnie is as bad as it may seem by the time you're done with this chapter. "AKA" (part II) By Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Part 11 of 24 Chapter 11: The bridge was all but silent. That in itself was unusual. The tension level on the bridge was even more so. Ensign Shanahan was nervous. The loss of three of the senior staff, coupled with the presence of the three from Section Seven was putting the entire crew on edge. *Man,* she thought wistfully, *what I wouldn't give for a massage.* A nice backrub would evaporate the tension in her muscles. And she knew _just_ who she'd like to give her one. Unfortunately, he wasn't aboard, and he might not be for a while. An alarm going off on one of her consoles shattered her fantasy. *What the hell?* she wondered. Lieutenant Commander Kimura turned to Shanahan. "What happened?" she asked. Shanahan knew that most of the crew had problems with Kimura, and how she'd come aboard. Truthfully, there was no reason Shanahan could see for the animosity. Kimura was an incredible officer, and Shanahan found her nonemotional demeanor a relaxing break from the passionate command of Hudson. Ford's passions, she found rather relaxing. Or at least, she would if he wasn't seeing Lieutenant Henderson. For now, however, Ford was in Macronesia, and Shanahan was looking for the cause of the alarm on her console. She found it. She was shocked. "Sir," she said, shaking her head in amazement, "There's been an explosion somewhere amidships." She pressed a few buttons. "It'll take a few minutes to pinpoint it." She was so focused on the board that she was only peripherally aware of the rest of the bridge. By the time the scan was complete, Kimura had gotten Hudson on the intercom. "Sir," said the ensign carefully. "The explosion was in the captain's office." Kimura didn't so much as blink. "Captain," she reported, "Your office is the sight of the blast." As Shanahan continued staring at her board, she noticed something else. "Oh my God--" she cut herself off. "Lieutenant! There's a weak lifesign in the office, and a fire has started!" "Sir," Kimura reported calmly, "There seems to be someone in your office. Do you know who it could be?" "No," Hudson replied over the intercom. "I'm on my way there now. Call Damage Control, and meet me in front of my office." "Already on my way, sir." Kimura stood and headed towards the door at a brisk pace. She stopped briefly, and turned to Shanahan. "Shanahan, keep us informed. You've got the conn." Shanahan could only stare in shock as she was placed, albeit temporarily, in command of the ship. There was no time to enjoy it. Shanahan continued to watch the monitors. * * * * * Hudson was met by Kimura outside of his burning office. The door was already hot to the touch. He grabbed the nearest fire extinguisher and started for the room. "Sir," Kimura pointed out, "Shouldn't you wait for damage control?" "No time," Hudson responded as he pushed past her. He opened the door, and the wall of heat that hit him threatened to drive him back. Still, he managed to push his way in, quenching the flames as best he could. The desk seemed to have been where the fire had started, judging by the fact that it was now a pile of ashes. *So much for its being fire resistant,* he thought ironically. As Hudson looked around, he realized that he could, barely, see the outline of a body. He started towards it, trying to drown the flames nearest the person. Just as Hudson had nearly won the battle, having nearly put out most of the flames in the small office, he heard several people enter. "Sir," CPO Ray Stilwell said from behind him, "We can take over from here." "It's about time," Hudson snapped. "I've managed to put out most of the fire myself." Stilwell looked slightly flushed. "Sorry, sir, but the maglevs went down, along with the other security systems, a few minutes after this happened." Stilwell's team had, by this time, managed to quench the rest of the flames. The unconscious form on the deck was revealed for the first time, as Perry's medteam arrived. It was Tony Piccolo. *Damn,* Hudson thought. Aloud, he asked, "Doctor, how bad is it?" And why had Piccolo been here, anyway? Hadn't Michaels told him not to bother coming? "He should be fine. A mild concussion as well as some flashburns. He's better than he looks." As they left, Hudson followed them out. He was concerned, more so than he'd ever admit, for the young man's welfare. "I thought Michaels--" He cut himself off when he realized that there was no one to listen to what he had to say. Another thought crossed his mind, one that he didn't enjoy having. What if she hadn't? Hudson marched straight to Montgomery's office, determined to get an answer to the question. * * * * * Lieutenant Michaels was in one of her rare good moods. According to Wolenczak, whose most recent report she was in the process of reading over before Chandler got his hands on it, everything was working well. Of course, the ensign hadn't put it in as many words, but having to interrogate Ford could only be regarded as a sign of progress. As she began to format the report into something that Montgomery would be able to make something out of, she was suddenly aware of the door opening. She immediately swiveled the monitor so that the new arrival wouldn't be able to see it. The door slammed. It was Hudson. "Where the hell's Montgomery?" he demanded. She looked up, appearing uninterested in whatever he was going to start talking about. It wasn't difficult. She really didn't care. "She's off-duty." "I thought Section Seven _never_ went off-duty." She could tell that Hudson was annoyed, and her own self- control was getting on his nerves. She ignored him and looked back to the screen. "When will she be back?" "Why do you want to know?" One of the first edicts of being in the organization: Never tell Them what you don't have to. "Them", of course, being anyone you didn't trust and couldn't order you around. She didn't trust Hudson farther than she could throw him. And with standing orders from Montgomery that gave her free reign, Michaels wasn't scared about getting ordered around. "I'm not explaining myself to you, _Lieutenant_." *Good for you, you overgrown windbag.* "I suggest you reconsider your tone-- _Captain_." As much as she enjoyed verbal sparring, she didn't have time for it right now. Not with Wolenczak's report needing to be processed, and Chandler breathing down her neck. Hudson's expression turned, if possible, even more furious than when he'd first entered the room. "I'm giving you a direct order: tell me where she is." Michaels watched, amused, as the door behind Hudson opened and Montgomery entered the room-- noiselessly, of course, since she didn't allow herself to be heard unless she wanted to be-- and stood directly behind Hudson. "I'm right here, Captain," Montgomery said, the break in the silence both sudden and electrifying. "Is there something I can do for you?" Hudson turned, fuming. Michaels chucked inwardly at the sight. "A bomb just went off in my office." From the look on her face, Michaels could tell that Montgomery was going to mount one of her "I'm-more-egotistical- and-self-important-than-you-are-you-bastard" attacks. "And you'd like Section Seven to mount an investigation?" Montgomery managed, somehow, to project an even more condescending and patronizing aura for Hudson than she usually used on Michaels. "I'm sorry, Captain," she scoffed, "but we're already running an- -" "No," Hudson said angrily. "I want an explanation as to why Warrant Officer Piccolo wasn't informed as to the change in plans." Michaels knew what was coming next. The third degree, Montgomery-style. "Lieutenant," the older woman ordered, "explain yourself." "I contacted him and told him that the Captain would be unable to keep their appointment." She flashed Hudson a triumphant smile: *Beat that, you idiot.* Obviously, she hadn't been discreet. Montgomery's normally angered scrutiny became suspicious, and Michaels felt something closer to panic than anything she'd felt in years rising in the pit of her stomach. She fought it down effortlessly. "You can check ship's records, and Lieutenant Chandler witnessed the transmission." *And if that bastard doesn't back me up, I'll kill him.* But apparently, Montgomery didn't need anyone to back up Michaels' story. She smiled and looked at Hudson. "There. Now that it's been explained, is there anything else?" Hudson looked about ready to pop. The thought entertained Michaels for the barest fraction of a second. Then he spoke. "I hope you won't mind if I check your alibi." She shrugged lightly and smiled. "Of course not. I have nothing to hide." He glared at her. "We'll see," was all he said before leaving. The door slammed, and Michaels looked to Montgomery. The coordinator looked worried. "There _is_ a transmission." Michaels nodded, looking offended. "Of course. What do you take me for-- Chandler?" Montgomery shook her head as Michaels left. * * * * * There were flames everywhere. They were all that Henderson saw as she found herself in the Captain's office, right after the bomb went off. I know he's here, she thought, desperately searching. This is how Tony was hurt. She couldn't see him anywhere, no matter where she looked. Then, the dark outline of a body caught her eye. A body afire. She ran to him, trying to smother the flames that consumed him. But they were too strong. His skin was already charred and bled freely. His eyelids had been burned away, and his eyes were seared. His lungs weren't working well, but his heart still beat. Tony is still alive, she realized, and in total agony. She felt helpless. At least he's unconscious. But he wasn't. He started to moan. Oh god, she thought, Tony, please don't wake up! "Lonnie?" His voice was barely a croak. "Is that you?" "Yeah, it's me." She wanted to tell him that he'd be fine, but she couldn't. She didn't know if it was true. "Is damage control coming?" Damage control. Where the hell is damage control?!? "Lonnie," it was an agonized cry. She looked down. He was on fire again. The flames were going right through her, but they were burning him alive. She wasn't being hurt at all, but he was dying. "Lonnie," he tried again, "I was here...tell Captain...I was worried about you..." His body began to twitch as the flames reached his nerves. She tried to hold him down, but she couldn't. All at once, he was still. "Tony!" She felt for his pulse, but there was nothing there. Nothing but the flames. Still gorging themselves on his flesh. Finally, the Medteam arrived. "I'm sorry Lieutenant," the doctor said. "He's gone." He's gone. He's gone. He's gone...gonegonegone... * * * * * She was jarred awake, with only one thought on her mind. *Tony. I've got to make sure that he's okay.* She dressed quickly, so that she could go and see if she could find out what had happened. * * * * * "Dr. Atkinson!" O'Neill looked up from the biochemistry paper he was reading, becoming "Atkinson" without even a second thought. "Yeah?" he asked, as Torville barged into his quarters. It was odd, how easy the change had become. Before, Atkinson had come and gone without warning. Now, slipping into his new identity was as easy as slipping his hand into a glove. For the first time in a long time, O'Neill knew exactly who he was. It was a good feeling. As he reflected on the ease of his transition, O'Neill realized that Torville had begun speaking. "...So, this reception will take place in the large hall. I suppose that you'll have to meet some of the _seaQuest_'s senior officers as well." *Uh-oh!* O'Neill thought. Fortunately, "Atkinson" stayed without faltering. "_SeaQuest_, eh?" He shrugged. "Well, okay. If you wanna chance it..." He let the sentence trail off. Torville looked at him oddly. "`Chance it'?" "I'm wanted by the UEO," O'Neill explained. "Hudson might try to arrest me." As Torville's eyes narrowed, O'Neill realized that he might have said something wrong. "For a wanted scientist, you seem to be familiar with the crew of the _seaQuest_," Deon's aide observed. "Nah," O'Neill responded easily, giving "Atkinson" control for the moment. "Just Hudson. I, uh," O'Neill laughed, thinking quickly, "I stole his fianci once." *Where the hell did _that_ come from?!?* "Hmm..." was Torville's only comment, but O'Neill could see a new respect forming in Torville's pale blue eyes. "Well," he finally decided, "I suppose that you _should_ stay away from the reception." Inwardly, O'Neill sighed in relief. Outwardly, "Atkinson" just shrugged. "It would probably be best," he agreed. Torville nodded and left. O'Neill returned to his reading. * * * * * "Tony, why were you in the captain's office?" Henderson's voice was shaking. She was truly worried about him. He had hurt her that much... Piccolo had wanted to avoid this kind of confrontation, which was why he hadn't told her that he was going to Hudson. But he wasn't going to lie to her. "I had to talk to him." He wasn't going to tell her the whole truth, either. Not if he could avoid it. "About what?" He wasn't going to be able to avoid it. How could he tell her how angry it had made him to walk in and see her in danger like that? How he had felt, knowing that if he had been only a few seconds later, she would have had some serious trouble on her hands. *How good it felt when she turned to _me_ for help.* The feeling he had gotten when she had collapsed into him...and how scared she had been. "About Chandler. I--" She looked like she was almost on the verge of anger, but she wasn't going to blow up at him. "I told you not to go to him yet." "He threatened you." He knew that he was taking a chance, letting her know just how responsible he felt for her safety... He put one hand on her arm, not knowing how she would respond. "I'm sorry if you're upset, but I had to do something." *I couldn't just sit by and watch you keep it under wraps.* She reached up and put her hand on his shoulder, and the anger left her face, replaced by sorrow...and something else. "Well look at what it got you. I could have lost you today...and I don't think I could stand losing anyone else." Unsure of exactly how to respond, he just smiled. "I'll be here as long as you need me." Something was happening. He heard a voice in the back of his head telling him to stop the conversation, to turn it away... But he didn't listen. She leaned forward, and kissed him lightly on the cheek. At first, he thought that it was only a friendly peck...then she pulled back, and their eyes met. Only seconds before it happened, he realized what was going on. As she kissed him again, harder this time, he heard a voice telling him why this was wrong, why he should stop, why he should pull away. But his body wasn't going to listen to that tiny voice. He responded to her, and only when their lips parted did she try to explain. And then, it was only a whisper in his ear. "I need you _now_." He wasn't about to complain. She reached up, beginning to unbutton his shirt. He slipped her vest off, letting it fall on the floor as they fell back onto the bed. He could hear the blood pounding in his ears as she began caressing his shoulders, his back, his chest... It was only natural that he reciprocate. He found himself closer to her than he'd ever even fantasized about being. The light, spicy scent of her perfume teased him, drawing him closer still... It all felt so right-- until he realized who he was kissing, and who he was going to go even farther with if he didn't stop himself. The shock hit him like a pail of cold water. He couldn't do this with Lonnie. Not while she was so disoriented. Not while she was so scared and vulnerable. *The hell you can't.* She had initiated it, and she obviously didn't have much of a problem with what they were doing. He wouldn't be in the wrong if he let it continue... *But what'll it do to her?* She would never be able to look at him again...and as much as he wanted to keep going, he wasn't about to trade one night for their friendship. He gently pulled away, knowing full well that the next few moments would be vital to the continuation of his relationship with one Lieutenant j.g. Lenore Ellen Henderson. "Lonnie, this is wrong..." He was barely able to whisper it, his body ignoring the command from his brain. She ignored him as well, and he knew that if she didn't stop, he'd keep going. "Think about what you're doing." He couldn't stop thinking about what she was trying to do, or how much his body wanted him to let her do it. She tried to pull him closer, and he knew that it was going to be up to him to stop it. *Am I sure I _want_ to?* He didn't know. He took her by the shoulders and pushed her away forcefully. "I don't want to lose you either...you're too important to me." He slid off the bed and pulled his shirt back on, fumbling with the buttons. The expression on her face as he did so showed that she hadn't meant to do what she had done. He couldn't bear to see her hurting like that. "Look, you're not yourself. And I don't want to abuse that." *Liar...Yes you do...* "I care about you too much." *You've never cared about anyone _that_ much. Why start now?* "We'd both regret it in the morning." *You're gonna regret it tonight.* He was trying to think of something else soothing to tell her, but failed. "Lonnie, don't take this the wrong way...but maybe you should leave." *Before I lose control.* Mercifully, she took the hint. He held open the door, and once she had left, he collapsed against the door. *Anybody else would have jumped at the chance. But no. I had to be so damned moral.* *I had to be so stupid.* He sank to the floor in relief and closed his eyes, disgusted. * * * * * If there was one thing Torville hated more than the fact that he had to take orders from Deon, it was that he had to pretend he liked it. After what Sydney had promised him, about trying to make Schwartz lighten up on the scientists, and after hearing Murphy whine for as long as he'd had to, he had known that he would have to see to Deon. Unfortunately, he really didn't have the luxury of putting it off much longer. Deon kept insisting that everything was fine, that Bourne and Schwartz just needed a chance to cool their jets, and in those terms. Torville had never been able to figure out why Deon was so fascinated with air travel, aside from the fact that it had played a major role in helping him amass his fortune. But because of Arkara's willingness to share information-- especially when he reciprocated-- he knew that Bourne was more than "impatient". And thanks to the extra few months he'd spent in the company of the trio before going back to the U.S. to get the scientists, he knew that when Bourne got impatient, their were consequences. Nasty ones. "I'm getting edgy about this entire venture," he said when Deon paused for breath. "Bourne isn't keeping his impatience a secret. The scientists have been coming to me...and Dr. Murphy has voiced his concerns several times...loudly." *Rather loudly,* he thought, reminding himself of the afternoon's appointment. "He's threatened us?" Deon actually sounded concerned. Of course, with four of the worlds top mercenary scientists working for them, Torville could understand that. Still, as much as he'd like to get back to the states and have the chance to invite Arkara along with him, Torville knew that, once the project had finished and he was free to do just that, the American continent, along with the rest of the UEO, wasn't going to one of the nicest spots to be staying. "Not in that many words." "I'll have to have a talk with him," Deon acceded. "Tell Tamika to schedule an appointment-- here." "Do you sure that's especially wise?" Deon looked up. "Dean, you've been working here in Macronesia for the past four months." It was true enough, aside from the brief trip he'd taken back to pick up the scientists and the one he had planned to prepare his things for being moved out of the country. He sure as hell wasn't going to leave them to the virus' tender mercies. "Is Bourne the type to mount a frontal attack? Of course not. He's not a linear thinker..." *Damn straight,* Torville thought. "I suppose not," was his only response. Then, as an afterthought, "But he's also not the type to do the attacking." "What's that supposed to mean?" Deon asked. *Brilliant,* Torville told himself. With what he'd been "told" by Arkara, and discovered by way of his contacts, he knew damn well exactly who Deon should watch out for. But he'd also promised Arkara not to let anyone in on the information she'd given him. "Just that he might not be the one to look out for." Deon's laugh was uneasy, and Torville could tell that no matter what he said, the billionaire was unnerved. "And who _should_ I look out for? Surely, you're not suggesting that I keep guards posted at every door." "Schwartz has been harassing the team as of late. And although I doubt that he could do anything himself, Ms. Arkara has told me that he has _connections_." Sydney couldn't find fault with that, could she? Torville hoped not. Deon's watchful stare turned suddenly suspicious. "You have an open line of communication with Bourne's advisor?" *An open line of communication...* "You could say that, yes..." There were a lot of things one could say about his relationship with Arkara. Deon's gaze wandered around the room before meeting Torville's once again. "Fine then. I'll meet with the President tomorrow and clear this up. Until then, not a word." Torville knew that he, for one, wouldn't say a thing. No point in giving Sydney any reason to get angry with him. Or, he reminded himself, her CO. Still he couldn't help but feel a twinge of resentment as he agreed. He stood and made a move as though to leave the office, but as he opened the door, Deon's voice stopped him. "And Dean...watch your back. Ambition can be a virtue, but it can also be a fatal flaw." *What the Hell it _that_ supposed to mean?!?* But Torville knew _exactly_ what Deon was talking about as he left. TO BE CONTINUED... Copyright 1996 Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie =========================== PART 12 ===================================== Disclaimer: The following story belongs to Rachel Brody and Melissa Beattie. Duplication is _strictly prohibited_ without their permission. For the sake of sanity, please refrain from posting or sending this to others without their permission. Send Questions, comments, and constructive criticism to: bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Introduction: This story takes place after "Weapons of War". The story is set up, to some degree, in "Fusion", "Kaos Theory", and "Cost of Living", which are also by Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie. "AKA" (part II) By Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Part 12 of 24 Chapter 12: There wasn't much time to waste. Everything had been engineered perfectly, and it had to work like clockwork. Chandler and Michaels were in position, and Montgomery only had to wait until their plan kicked in. Then, within an hour, one of the thorns in her side wouldn't be there anymore. And hopefully, the two that would remain would have learned their lesson. Behind her, Piccolo was still reeling from what had happened earlier. Henderson hadn't been herself, and he still felt weird. Not how he would have felt if they had actually carried through with it-- then, he would have been scared silly and depressed like all hell. He was just a bit disoriented. They hadn't spoken for almost 24 hours. The last time that had happened, it had been because she had been...in prison. "Hanley, what is the ETA to Macronesia?" He was still getting used to hearing Montgomery giving the commands. Knowing what she and her people were capable of only made it worse. "ETA to the--" Hanley stopped talking when the lights went off, plunging the bridge into darkness. Piccolo felt himself beginning to get shaky. What had happened now? What else could go wrong? "Switch to auxiliary power." As Kimura obeyed the order, red-alert lights began to flicker on, and the light that resulted bathed the bridge in a bizarre kind of hue that hurt Piccolo's eyes. "Readings indicate that the power junction in section 26, node 12 has failed." Piccolo still didn't know why Chandler was operating the station next to him, and he didn't like it. Aside from the fact that the guy was from Section Seven-- which would have been enough to set Piccolo's teeth on edge in a normal situation, there was the fact of what he had tried to do to Henderson. Piccolo thought he caught some sort of nod going from Montgomery to Chandler, but he wasn't sure. "Mr. Piccolo, go fix it." *Fix it? Alone?* Piccolo wondered what she could be thinking. He caught Kimura's eye. She didn't appear any more confident in his abilities than he was. She, at least, was going to voice her objections. Piccolo was just too tongue-tied. "Sir, perhaps--" Montgomery wasn't the type who liked her orders questioned. If there had been any doubt in Piccolo's mind concerning that before, there certainly wasn't now, as she stood and glared at Kimura with a stare that brought an old saying to Piccolo's mind. *If looks could kill...* "Mister Piccolo, _fix it_." He wasn't about to dispute the order with her-- she would be likely to bite his head off, and despite what some people thought, Piccolo had grown rather attached to it. * * * * * The corridor was blacker than pitch, and the flickering, yellow-tinted beam of light that his flashlight emitted wasn't doing anything to bolster Piccolo's spirits. He was going to have to change the battery once the power went back on. He had to find node twelve, and since the nodes were numbered along the wall, it was only a question of whether or not his flashlight would be strong enough to illuminate the panel that covered it. "Ten...eleven...twelve," he counted out loud. The sound of his voice made the eerie silence easier to bear. He had never been one for dark places-- not that he was oscurophobic-- but with the power out and echos of voices drifting down the stairs, the corridor had the same feeling as he would have expected in a graveyard. Once he located the panel, he had to set his toolkit on the floor. But he still needed the light, and with only two hands, he had to hold it in his mouth. He pried the panel off the wall, and took out a scanning device that would enable him to find the faulty circuit. The wires had been crossed, as far as he could tell. This couldn't have been an accident. Someone had sabotaged the node. And he had a pretty good idea of who that was. As he began to rewire the circuits, he felt a chill run down his spine. Up ahead, near the spot where the corridor he was in intersected with another...someone was there. He could hear the soft footfall that accompanied lightly padded shoes. He stood slowly, and put the panel back in its place. As he took several steps towards the source of the noise, he was strongly tempted to turn around and run the other way. *After all, curiosity killed the cat...* He had never been big on felines. Besides, if the person who he could hear now, breathing softly, was the same one who had sabotaged the power node, he had to catch them. He looked carefully down the corridor on the left, then shifted his gaze to the one on the right-- But he never quite made it. Someone struck out and knocked him to the floor. *What the hell...?* He struggled as he was pulled into the adjoining corridor, but he was no match for whoever had attacked him. Whoever it was, she knew how to use her size to her advantage. He was quickly pinned to the floor, the weight of the person sitting on his chest making breathing difficult. *Haven't been in _this_ position for _quite_ a while...* He couldn't help it. Making light of dangerous situations was in his nature. Then he felt the knife. There was an ice-cold blade of steel against his throat. *I'm going to die.* He couldn't move. Just like that, the ability to fight went out of his body. Knowing that he was about to be murdered made his blood run cold. And then he heard it. Someone was coming. "Piccolo?" The voice was Hudson's. Footsteps began to come closer. But they weren't fast enough. The call only served to startle his attacker. She looked up, and the pressure of the steel knife was suddenly lessened. She had been distracted, and he could move again. But she didn't give him much time to appreciate the new situation. The glint of the red lights off the blade of the dagger was the only warning he had before she stabbed him. He felt a slight popping as the knife entered his lung, and heard himself try to cry out in pain. Then he couldn't breathe. The weight on his chest was lessened as his attacker stood and ran off down the corridor. As he felt someone kneeling down beside him, and could almost hear a voice telling him to hold on, he sank into blissful unconsciousness. * * * * * Seeing Piccolo lying on the deck had been only one of today's shocks. The next had occurred a half-second later, when he had seen the knife lying on the deck, covered in blood. Piccolo's blood, running out of a palm-sized gouge in his chest. Hudson had only taken the emergency medical course required by all cadets at the Academy. His logic had been that if something went so horribly wrong that the afflicted member of his crew or group would be dead before a medteam arrived, then they would be too much of a burden to the rest of the group, and there was no point in attempting to help them when time could be better spent. Now, waiting for Perry to arrive, Hudson began to wish that he knew how to stop the massive amount of bleeding. He was as helpless as he had been in Macronesia. He hadn't known the Lieutenant as well as the rest of the crew, but had trusted and respected the man. And he had hated sending that letter to Brody's grandparents. He hated sending those letters, period. The seconds stretched out into minutes, and the minutes seemed to stretch into hours. He had to fight down the urge to get back on his PAL and harass Perry, tell her to hurry up. But he knew that she was hurrying. She arrived almost ten minutes after he placed the original request. Again, the maglevs had been out. He hadn't really had time to reflect on that piece of information before Piccolo had been loaded onto a stretcher and he had followed the Medteam back to the Medbay. Piccolo was immediately taken into surgery by Dr. Burke, one of Perry's most experienced assistants. The hole in his chest was one that couldn't be ignored. Hudson was waiting outside with Perry when the first batch of x-rays arrived. Within seconds, the doctor had spread them out on a lighted wall panel. She examined them for several moments before turning to explain. "Damn." *Okay, so now I know that it's not good-- in other words, nothing I didn't know before.* "What happened?" "To be exact," and Perry's tone of voice made it clear that she hadn't planned on being anything but, "There's a small puncture wound in his left lung, and a scratch on the right side of his collarbone." She sighed deeply, as one extremely tired. "Aside from the more tangible wounds, there was a great deal of blood loss." She turned back to Hudson, and he got the distinct impression that she was waiting for him to say something. He had no idea what, so he kept quiet. "I don't like the idea of having someone who's capable of _that_ loose on the ship." "You aren't the only one, either." The thought made his skin crawl. Sure, on occasion he'd felt the impulse to shoot a few plasma charges into Piccolo's head, but it looked as though someone was beginning to get obsessive about this. Two attacks-- because he was now sure that the explosion in his office hadn't been an accident-- both seemingly directed at the same individual. *It couldn't have been blind luck that Montgomery called me away at that exact second. Or that Chandler had just acquired some sort of interest in my desk...* He'd have to order security to look into the cause of the explosion in his office. *At least,* he reminded himself, *what little there is left of _that_.* The sound of a door opening distracted him from his thoughts. He looked up, surprised to see Henderson entering. She looked almost frantic with worry. He approached her, followed by Perry, as she stood speechless at the door of the O.R. Piccolo was lying on the table, a team of surgeons skillfully tending his wounds. Henderson turned and stared up at Hudson in something akin to shock. "What happened to Tony?" she demanded. Hudson and Perry exchanged uneasy glances. "According to Dr. Perry, he has some serious injuries." Henderson stared at him, unable to assimilate what he's said or so it seemed. She shifted her gaze to Perry and continued staring. Perry eased the Lieutenant into a seat. Hudson sat on Henderson's other side as Perry explained. "He's in surgery," she said, as though it weren't obvious. "We're working as quickly as we can." At the shock on Henderson's face, "he should pull thorough." Hudson winced inwardly at her admission of unsurety. "Piccolo was attacked." That seemed to shock Henderson out of her almost catatonic state. "Tony? _Attacked_?" Perry nodded. "There was some sort of struggle." Henderson started to stand, but her knees buckled and she sank back into her chair, mouth open in disbelief. Hudson put one of his hands over hers, not knowing how to stop her from what it looked like she was about to do have a nervous breakdown. "Dr. Perry assures me that he'll..." He stopped talking when she stared up at him, eyes ablaze with fury and concern. "I know who it was," she said, her voice steadier than Hudson had heard it in ages. The implications of her words took a few seconds to gnaw their way through the haze that Hudson had learned to accept as his consciousness. "Lieutenant?" he asked. She glanced around the room as if afraid someone would overhear her. Hudson hated knowing that she was probably wise to do so. "I need to talk to you, sir. In private." Hudson glanced towards Perry, who gestured to the door across the room. "You can use my office." Hudson nodded and helped Henderson into Perry's office. Once there, he shout the door and looked at her. "Well?" She took a deep breath. "This is gonna take a few minutes, sir...but I've gotta tell you before anyone else gets hurt..." Her voice trailed off. Hudson looked Henderson, carefully studying her face. He had never seen her so discomfited before. "Henderson, get on with it," Too late, he realized how harsh he sounded. *Oliver, be careful...she almost lost a best friend--and she may still lose him yet.* The thought hurt, but Hudson had long ago learned not to try to kid himself about the reality of situations... Elaine had always said that he was being pessimistic, but he had seen it as healthy pragmaticism. Her gaze didn't leave the floor as she began to speak, briskly rubbing her arms as though cold. "Tony tried to convince me to let him come to you earlier...I wouldn't let him. We didn't have any proof--" As her voice faltered, she fell silent. "Proof of what?" She only needed a little prodding, that Hudson was sure of. She took a deep breath, and Hudson looked stoically on as a tear fell to the desk and spattered across it. "Of what Lieutenant-- Of what happened." Hudson wanted to push her, to make her speed up her explanation-- confession?-- but some single shred of patience held him back. What he knew Henderson didn't need now was his pushing her. As her lower lip trembled and she began to pace, he was glad that he hadn't. "Lieutenant Chandler..." Her voice trailed off as she sank into the plastic seat across the desk, covering her face in her hands. "Tony and I were investigating." Hudson nodded as she wiped her eyes. "Investigating what?" "Tim." The word was more than enough. "And?" "We were told not to pursue the investigation." "By who?" If Montgomery was threatening his people... "Lieutenant Chandler." As she said the name, the look that crossed her face made Hudson suddenly uneasy. "What?" "He...approached me in my quarters, and said that Tony and I should-- He said _I_ should stop, if I knew what was good for me. And he implied that--" She broke off, eyes filled with tears. It didn't matter. From her attitude and what she had told him, Hudson could infer the rest. But he had to be absolutely certain before he confronted anyone. He leaned forward, hands folded and elbows resting on the desk. They stared at each other for a long moment before he decided on the exact words to use. "Lieutenant Henderson, are you telling me that Lieutenant Chandler threatened yours and Mr. Piccolo's safeties?" She nodded miserably. "And are you accusing him of being somehow connected with either this incident or the bombing of my office, with the intent of injuring Mr. Piccolo?" Her head bobbed up and down. "And Lieutenant Chandler attempted to assault you?" She shut her eyes and nodded again. He stood and walked to the door, peered out glass window. He couldn't see Piccolo, because he was in surgery, but he could see how Henderson was behaving. She was behaving like someone who had been put through a lot, and didn't deserve any of it. No one deserved what she said had happened to her and Piccolo. They had been pursuing an investigation into the death of one of their colleagues-- one of their _friends_, he reminded himself gently. And in that pursuit, they had probably been blocked at every turn, disallowed information, restricted in their abilities to function...and they had still come up with enough evidence that something was amiss to draw the attention of Montgomery's flunkies. Hudson desperately wanted to know what that something was, and he only knew of one person who would be able to tell him that. He turned back to Henderson, and saw that she had recovered somewhat from her tears. "Thank you for your statement then, Lieutenant. I only wish you could have brought this information to my attention earlier." The moment the words were out of his mouth, he knew that they hadn't been what was needed in this situation. *Damn it, Oliver, why not just tell her that Piccolo's being attacked was her fault?* "I'll take care of it." She nodded, and he rose out of his seat and left Perry's office. As he crossed the Medbay, Perry tried to get his attention, but by this time, he was too furious to care. * * * * * Henderson watched in silence as Hudson left the office, wondering what to do next. She wasn't going to back to her quarters, and she didn't need to be on the bridge for at least a few hours. She walked out of Perry's office, in something of a daze, barely in time to see Hudson storm out. A cold chill wracked her body as she found herself suddenly alone. She'd been afraid she'd lose Tony before. If she lost him without being able to tell him how sorry she was. If she lost him at _all_. She wandered towards to glass partition between the main area of the medbay and the O.R. She watched Piccolo's body, lying on the operating table, never taking her eyes off him as Perry and the rest of the medteam worked. She couldn't believe how much blood there was. "Lieutenant?" She turned around at the word, and forced herself to smile. It must have come off as even more pitiful than she'd thought, because Burke returned it all too quickly. "Yes?" "Have a seat?" The brunette doctor gestured to a bank of plastic chairs. "They're a lot more comfortable than they look," she said in an amused tone. Henderson nodded, still shaking. She let Burke guide her into one of the chairs. Burke took the seat next to Henderson for herself. She smiled shyly. "So," she began, "I'd assume that you and Piccolo are..." Her voice trailed off as she searched for a word. "...friends?" Henderson sighed and flopped back, her head leaning back on the wall. "Friends. Yeah." *Thank God.* She still couldn't believe what she'd done. Tony had been avoiding her ever since. She couldn't blame him. Burke looked up towards the O.R. "He'll be okay. Really." Henderson nodded. "Mm-hm." But her heart wasn't really in it. She looked up at Burke. "Doctor," she asked, wondering if there was any point asking what she was about to. "Do you think I could see him?" Burke nodded. "He should be out of surgery in an hour or so. I'm sure we can work something out." * * * * * Three hours later, the door to Piccolo's room in the medbay opened. Henderson let herself be led in. The first thing she saw was the life support unit that was blocking her view of her friend. She took a step towards his bed, and felt Burke gently touch her arm, stopping her. "I can only let you stay for a few minutes," she said. Then, apologetically, "He needs to rest." Henderson nodded. She understood, and she was glad for even a few minutes to be with Tony. She couldn't bear the thought of losing him With Jonathan, Tim, and Lucas gone she refused to let herself think that they were anywhere else but on some sort of extended leave, even Lucas... Tony was the only person she had left. She needed him. Her eyes fell on a blue plastic chair. Unconsciously, she pulled it to Tony's bedside and sat down, straddling it and reaching out for his hand. She squeezed it gently. "Tony," she whispered, "it's me." She stared at him for several moments, his chest rising and falling unevenly. An IV was running into his arm, and his breath was ragged. She'd never seen him looking so small. She reached up with her free hand and gently ruffled his hair. She'd never had someone like Tony before. He was almost like a brother to her, and fiercely loyal. What she'd almost done... She didn't even know if he could hear her or not if he was ever going to be able to again. No matter what Perry and Hudson told her, she wouldn't feel secure until he was back on duty. But by the time that happened, it would be too late to say what she had to say. Even if her couldn't hear her, it was something that she couldn't put off any longer. "I just wanted to apologize, she said. "I don't know what I was thinking. But she realized that wasn't really what she meant. "I wasn't thinking." She looked away, no longer able to hold in the frustration and pain that was overcoming her. She looked back at him when she heard a ragged breath. The joy that she felt when she saw that he was looking at her suddenly vanished. His eyes normally bright, seemed somehow half asleep and half frightened. She let a sigh of relief escape her lips, and three words were carried along with it. "I'm so sorry." It wasn't what she'd meant to say not what she'd planned. But it seemed to be all that Piccolo needed to hear. "That's okay." She couldn't believe how weak his voice was and he was trying to be strong for her! "No, it's not!" She didn't know how to tell him how much she hated herself for what she'd tried to do. "I shouldn't have done it!" She paused and smiled and squeezed his hand again. "Thank's for stopping me." Something dimmed in Piccolo's eyes, but Henderson didn't see it. "You're welcome," he said. "I hope we can still be friends." She was sure, now, that he didn't hold what had happened in his quarters against her. "Don't worry about it." He coughed, and his eyes drifted shut. They stayed that way long enough to make her wonder if he'd fallen asleep. Then they flew open, as if he had something to ask her. "Did you tell..." She nodded at once, glad to be able to offer him some sort of comfort. "I told him." And from what she'd heard, there had been fireworks. "You were right in the first place. It's gone too far." An expression of relief flashed across Piccolo's face for the briefest of moments before his eyes again closed and he was asleep. As though Burke had been waiting outside the door for it to happen, she entered the room. She glanced at Piccolo, then to Henderson. "I'm afraid I've got to ask you to leave now." Henderson nodded. As she stood, she patted Piccolo once on the arm, and left the room. She couldn't help but realize, once she'd left the medbay, that Burke hadn't followed her out. * * * * * Wolenczak was going to die. At least, he would if Arkara had any kind of say in the issue. She could believe she had been so blind. That little bastard had her convinced that he was harmless-- or at least smart enough to stay that way. She couldn't believe that she'd been taken in. She'd kill him. As she stormed past Bourne's secretary, her mind was already beginning to formulate different ways of stretching what was already almost sure to be a lengthy interrogation out by days. *It had _better_ be a long interrogation.* If that god_damned_ sonofa_bitch_ had the nerve to cave, she'd rip him to shreds with her bare hands. She shoved the door to Bourne's office open and swiftly crossed the room, not caring if she was interrupting him or not. "We've humored that two-bit hacker for long enough." Bourne was taken off guard, of course, but he didn't let it show. The way he returned her fury with calmness only angered her further. "What tipped the scales?" He knew who she was referring to. It was a good thing, too, because if he'd forced her to spell it out, she might have done something regrettable. "That babyfaced con artist has been reporting to _Section Seven_ the _entire time_!" Bourne jerked forward. She had snagged his attention. "He _what_?!?" She could have throttled him. "He's sent _reports_! Alexander, that pitiful excuse for a secret agent has had time to give the UEO everything he's seen!" "How the hell did he do that?" Bourne demanded. He was already looking for someone to blame. She'd be damned if she'd let it be her. "He's got to be stopped!" Sometimes, stating the obvious was one of the best way of getting his mind off her. "How long will it take to get him in custody?" She mentally calculated the amount of time it would take to have the secret police get to Wolenczak's quarters. "Less than an hour." *Too long.* He nodded, rising from his seat. "Get Schwartz. I'll meet the two of you outside his quarters in forty-five minutes." She nodded as he brushed by her. * * * * * Michaels had known that Montgomery would be upset when she discovered her failure. She had also known that she would get in trouble. Of course, she hadn't expected for Chandler to be involved in the disciplining as well. He was standing a few feet away, his posture almost identical to her own: arms folded across his chest, leaning against the wall. The only difference was that he wasn't the one on the receiving end of Montgomery's rage. "He's going to live." *Go to hell, bitch.* The thought wasn't meant in an affectionate manner, either. Montgomery had been riding Michaels since she had signed up into Section Seven. And Chandler wouldn't wipe the self-satisfied grin off his face. He'd been waiting for her to screw up. If he didn't stop acting like such a goddamned ass, she'd kill him. Yeah, right. Just like Piccolo. She'd had _him_ defenseless. One more swipe would have finished the job. It was too bad, but she'd failed. Strike three: you're dead. She had always been a perfectionist. It had been what had enabled her to rise in the ranks of Section Seven. She knew that both Chandler and Montgomery resented her ability to get a job done. Chandler hadn't been on a field mission for close to eighteen months, and as far as Michaels was concerned, Montgomery was a washed-out has-been. Better than being a washed-out never-was. "I couldn't have stayed longer without Hudson's discovering who I was." She knew that she sounded defensive. Hell, she _felt_ defensive. "It was a risk anyway-- my staying once I heard him coming." She had never given a damn about the risks before. What was the difference now? There wasn't one. It was just plain, stupid, bad luck. As if he had a right to reprimand her, Chandler exploded. "He should have been _dead_ by now!" Yeah, and when Piccolo showed up, he hadn't stopped with Lieutenant Henderson... She could read Chandler like a book. "Losing the golden touch already?" It was a joke, harking back from her first months in the organization. She had been overzealous, always wanting to get results. Chandler's problem was with the fact that not only had she gotten them almost all of the time, but their superiors had admired her ambition. He had nicknamed her ability with the stripes "the golden touch"-- him or one of her other colleagues, at least. It had become such a common reference to her expertise that she had forgotten its exact origin. Besides, she had never really liked it. She had always considered it a bit too unprofessional. Still, she didn't like it that Chandler was implying that she was losing something-- especially not in light of what had already happened. She uncrossed her arms and took three purposeful strides towards him, not stopping until she was right in front of him. "Don't talk to _me- about losing my touch, _Lieutenant_. At least _I_ didn't forget to--" For once, she was glad when Montgomery interrupted her. She hadn't had any idea of what it was that Chandler had done that would make his indicating that she was losing her touch a bad idea. "Both of you, be quiet. There must be--" Montgomery abruptly cut herself off when the door flew open. A _very_ angry Oliver Hudson stalked into the room. To her credit, Montgomery didn't let it go that something was going on. Of course, she was a Regional Head of Section Seven. She never would have. She did, however, shoot a glare in Michaels' general direction, and one at Chandler. Then, she turned her fiery glare back to Hudson. "Captain, it there--" "Damn you, and your entire organization!" Most people would have flinched at his explosiveness. Montgomery didn't so much as blink. She even looked a bit amused by Hudson's audacity. He didn't seem to care. "Right now, one of my _best_ men is lying down in the Medbay, in surgery, and so help me God, if he doesn't make it--" Threats were something that had always been a problem for Montgomery to deal with. In other words, she could dish 'em out, but she couldn't take them very well. She stood, and placed her own hands on the desk. Her face and Hudson's were within centimeters of each other. "Lieutenants, go." Her glare didn't so much as flicker while Michaels and Chandler exited. Hudson's didn't, either. Not that she'd expected that it would. He was one of the people for whom she had a grudging semi-respect. If he had joined Section Seven, there was no telling how far he might have gone. But instead, all of his skill and fury was being wasted on this boat. "Lieutenant Henderson has just informed me of some rather _disturbing_ news concerning you and your people...especially Lieutenant Chandler." Montgomery's expression didn't give away her feelings. It never had. But if Chandler had screwed things up, she'd kill him. "Now, if you think I've going to let you--" That was enough. Her capacity for taking threats hadn't improved in the past sixteen seconds. "And what disturbing news would that be?" "Chandler tried to assault her." *Damn you, Chandler! Can't you do _anything_ right?* She would _kill_ him. Not that she would give Hudson the satisfaction of knowing that. "Really? And when was this?" Even with all of her experience, it was difficult for her to keep her voice uninterested. "Midafternoon, yesterday. In her quarters." "That's impossible." Montgomery let the words out through her teeth, even though she knew that, especially in Chandler's case, it was very possible indeed. "He was with Lieutenant Michaels and myself all day yesterday." She had been lying for so long that to come up with an alibi for Chandler was simple. "Doing what?" Hudson wasn't about to let her back her way out of a fight, that she could tell for sure. "Helping you decide how to commit murder?" The hot rush that Montgomery felt in her face was enough to let her know that she had let her control drop, for just a few seconds. She sat back in her chair, and with that one gesture, the tension in the room went down several notches. Still, her voice was the temperature of liquid nitrogen when she spoke. "Captain, unless you have some proof backing up that statement, I suggest that you retract it. Immediately." The longer rumors like that were running around the ship, the harder it would be for her and her people to finish their mission. "Lieutenant Henderson's statement is proof enough for me." There was his mistake. He had been in command of _seaQuest_ for so long that he had forgotten what it was like when people didn't give a damn for your "status". She was going to have to remind him. "That may be true for you, but not for me...and remember, Captain, _I'm_ the one in command." He looked as though he was going to erupt. "Dismissed." He obviously wasn't going to give up that easily. Pity. She really wasn't in the mood for verbal sparring. "This is _not_, by _any_ means--" "I _said_, _dismissed_." She could almost see the gears in his head turning as he contemplated whether or not to follow her order. Although she was incredibly busy at the moment, part of her hoped that he'd refuse to go. She could almost feel the satisfying crunch of his face as her fist drove into it, just like with that annoying cameraman. But unfortunately, Hudson was going to comply. She sat in the silence of her office for a few seconds, stewing. Lieutenant Henderson had gone to Hudson with news of what had happened. There entire mission was going to be endangered, and all because of Chandler's glaring incompetence. She'd kill him. TO BE CONTINUED... Copyright 1996 Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie =========================== PART 13 ===================================== Disclaimer: The following story belongs to Rachel Brody and Melissa Beattie. Duplication is _strictly prohibited_ without their permission. For the sake of sanity, please refrain from posting or sending this to others without their permission. Send Questions, comments, and constructive criticism to: bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Introduction: This story takes place after "Weapons of War". The story is set up, to some degree, in "Fusion", "Kaos Theory", and "Cost of Living", which are also by Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie. "AKA" (part II) By Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Part 13 of 24 Chapter 13: Chandler and Michaels had been glaring at each other for almost a full minute. It was a staring contest, and whoever blinked first would lose. Michaels blinked. Chandler made sure that his satisfaction with that fact was visible in his expression. He gave her a pleasant smile. Now that he had won, he could afford civility. As he was getting ready to bestow some of that newfound civility on Michaels, the door to Montgomery's office slammed open, and Hudson stalked out. Chandler briefly wondered if Hudson suspected him of anything. But the bomb would have been completely decimated in the explosion, and Leanne's fingerprints would be the ones all over the knife incident. He had told her that stabbing someone wasn't the most efficient way of purging an inconvenience. But like the hotheaded child she was, she hadn't listened. She had always been too obsessed with knives. Not that he was particularly worried about being caught. His only regret was that Piccolo had barged in on his dialogue with Henderson. He could have made his warning so much more effective than just words, if only he'd had the time. Then, to be forced into that inane bombing scheme... Sometimes, he wondered after Michaels' sense of melodrama. He exchanged a brief glance with her, breaking the gaze only after holding it for a half-second too long. Years ago, he had learned what a powerful tool eyes and expressions could be. So much fear could be instilled with a sideways glance. Of course, Leanne knew that he enjoyed teasing her with his techniques, so she wasn't one of the people to whom he directed the brunt of his attempts. That, he left for people like Henderson. People who could _appreciate_ his efforts. The rush of adrenaline that resulted from those experiences still astonished him, after almost a decade in the organization. He had never thought that the feelings conveyed to another person with a glance, a word, and an imposing stance could feel so satisfying. No, _elating_ was really the best word. As though he held the world in the palm of his hand. A quick constriction of his finger muscles, and it would shatter like a broken eggshell. He realized that he had been so caught up in his thoughts that Michaels had decided to reenter Montgomery's office. He was almost too late to follow her in. He could tell immediately that Hudson hadn't brought Montgomery good news. He only cared in so far as that it would amplify her fury at Michaels, and he would get to watch the fireworks. He had always liked the fourth of July...at least, until NORPAC had outlawed fireworks as detrimental to the ozone. He had never given much of a damn for the ozone. "It looks as though Lieutenant Michaels isn't the only one who's losing her touch, Chandler. What the hell happened?" He looked up at the mention of his name. What was this? _He_ was going to be reprimanded? He racked his brain, trying to decide what it would have to be for. Only one answer popped up. Henderson hadn't been properly intimidated. Not that he was going to say that to Montgomery. "You said to scare her. When I left, she looked pretty damned scared." His explanation clearly wasn't what Montgomery had wanted to hear. "She told Hudson about the entire incident." "What `incident'?" He glared at Michaels. She knew what incident. This was just her way of getting back at him for his "golden touch" crack. "None of your damned business." He redirected his gaze to Montgomery, annoyed and feeling somewhat sarcastic. _That_ fact showed through in his tone of voice. "`Not scared enough'? Should I have gone all the way?" The fact that he was using the same tone of voice with his immediate superior as he would have used with his four-year-old niece didn't bother him for a second. "She obviously wasn't scared enough." He felt like tuning out the lecture. Problem was, that was what Montgomery expected for him to do. "I gave you carte blanche on this one, and you screwed up." Michaels was enjoying this, Chandler was sure of that. Time to turn the tables on the twerp. "Well, what should I do about it?" He had been working with Montgomery for months back at HQ, and he knew by now that the best way to deal with her was to accede to the less important aspects of her opinions. Best to save the ammunition for the major battles. "Nothing." *As usual.* "Yet." Chandler nodded and looked to Michaels, who was staring at them in astonishment. He could read the question that was blinking on her face in neon lights: How had he managed to evade Montgomery's wrath? He wasn't about to start giving Leanne the tricks of the trade. * * * * * Arkara and Schwartz had arrived before Bourne. The thirty- seven minutes it had taken to pull together a team of soldiers at this time of night had given Arkara a chance to cool down-- but not by much. She was barely able to restrain herself from grabbing a gun, forcing open the door, and blowing Wolenczak's knowledge-filled brain halfway to Hell. The only thing that kept her from doing so was that she knew that an interrogation would not only give her more information for her troubles, but it would be a lot more enjoyable to see Wolenczak writhing at the neural exciter than splattering against the wall of his quarters. Even if that _was_ a pleasing mental image. After what could have been eight hours instead of eight minutes, Bourne arrived. The bastard was punctual, if nothing else. He looked calm. More so than suited the situation. Along with several other things about him, she couldn't stand his stoic expression. Didn't he _care_ that Wolenczak had probably given the UEO everything from military strategies to the price of milk? She would never understand how Bourne could keep himself so emotionally detached from his work. He nodded to her, and she gestured to the soldiers. One of them unlocked the door, and Arkara started to push her way past the guards and into the room, but Bourne caught her by the arm and held her back. She almost slapped his hand away. The realization of that fact jerked her back from the brink of her rage. She felt herself begin to tremble as the adrenaline that she had been running on for the past hour abruptly left her system. Luckily, Bourne had released her by that point, and he didn't notice it. Somewhere, not exactly where she was conscious of it, she heard Wolenczak talking in his sleep. Something about someone named Tony, a shower, and an ensign. The sound of the ensign's voice was enough to make her see red. She shoved past Schwartz, into the room. Wolenczak was sitting on the sofa, in the center of the room. The sight of him brought her temper to a head, and she was hard pressed to keep it in line. She let a disdainful smile grace her face as she stopped only inches from his face. "Who are you talking to, Mr. Wolenczak? Perhaps..." She made a show of pretending to think, her face "lighting up" as the idea "dawned" on her. "Your Section Seven contact?" The look of complete and utter shock that crossed Wolenczak's face was almost enough to make her smile. "What are you talking about?" he asked. Without answering, she gestured to one of the soldiers, who approached the boy and wrenched his arms behind his back, handcuffing them at bizarre angles. His clear blue eyes turned to Bourne. "Is this supposed to be a joke?" Her hand crossed his face swiftly, a loud crack echoing from the slap. "What was that for?" he asked, almost innocently. She drew her hand back again, and was about to let loose with another smack when she felt someone else's hand close around her own, patting it in what she guessed was meant to be a soothing manner. "Sydney dearest," Bourne whispered in her ear, so close she could feel his breath on her neck, "save it for the interrogation." That he would have the nerve to tell her something like that after seeing her make such an idiot of herself, letting Schwartz discover the subterfuge before she'd had the chance to even guess it was there, should have annoyed her. But instead, an image consisting of Wolenczak, herself, and various instruments of torture flashed into her mind. It pleased her to no end. That was why the smile on her face as she pulled away from Bourne and left the room was a cruel one. Wolenczak was going to pay. TO BE CONTINUED IN "NECESSARY EVILS"... Copyright 1996 Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie =========================== PART 14 ===================================== This is continued from AKA. Disclaimer: The following story belongs to Rachel Brody and Melissa Beattie. Duplication is _strictly prohibited_ without their permission. For the sake of sanity, please refrain from posting or sending this to others without their permission. Send Questions, comments, and constructive critiscism to: bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Introduction: This story takes place after "Weapons of War". The story is set up, to some degree, in "Fusion", "Kaos Theory", and "Cost of Living", which are also by Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie. "Necessary Evils" (part III) By Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Part 14 of 24 ** * * * * * "Revenge has no more quenching effect on emotions than salt water has on thirst." --Walter Weckler ** * * * * * Chapter 14: Arkara was waiting impatiently for her guards to bring in their "spy". The boy had managed to truly annoy her, not so much his presence, but by the fact that he'd actually managed to transmit valuable data that he'd taken from their computers. She had been looking forward to this for a long time. Finally, Wolenczak was brought in, handcuffed and fighting mad. It amused her to watch the child's futile struggles as he was forced into the room, and shackled to the neural exciter. It was so amusing, in fact, that she actually chuckled as she walked up to the control console. "Don't waste your strength, Mr. Wolenczak," she advised him. "These electrodes are keyed into your neural pathways. Direct neural stimulation, I believe it's called. You'd have to ask one of our scientists to be sure, but then again..." She trailed off, mock sympathetically, before going on. "You won't have the opportunity." Wolenczak's breathing quickened, ever so slightly, giving Arkara a rush of amusement. "Look," he said, nearly breathless. "I don't know exactly what it is that you think you're doing, but I'll have you know, that toruring a UEO officer is a war crime." *A war crime?* As if that would bother her. He'd never survive to report it. Not if she had anything to say about it. Inwardly, she laughed. "Under the Geneva Convention of 2027, I demand--" Arkara didn't take well to demands. She pressed the activator. Wolenczak's cry of pain reverberated off of the walls. After the machine deactivated itself, she addressed her captive again. "That wasn't the wisest choice of words, young man. Now, while it may be true that Alexander has ordered that you suffer no permanent damage-- at least not until you've served your purpose--" Arkara let a hint of relish creep into her voice. "I think you'll be surprised to see just how much pain your body can suffer, before even _minor_ physical injuries manifest themselves." She paused to let her words sink in as she started to edge closer to him. "And," she added. "I told you before, that this is an interrogation. Treat it as such. Answer my questions, and you won't be harmed. Withold the answers or disobey me, and..." she let her voice trail off, and her gaze shifted towards the activator. She had the satisfaction of seeing the boy turn white, and his eyes shut, probably trying to regain some semblance of control. *We can't have that, now can we?* "Look at me," she ordered. She knew he wouldn't, but as she didn't get the chance to indulge in a lengthy interrogation very often, she intended to extend this one for as long as possible. "Now," she insisted. When he didn't respond, she hit the button again. He cried out again, and his eyes flew open. "I think you've learned your lesson," she said, once his cry faded. "Now then, what is your mission in Macronesia?" He glared defiantly up at her. "None of your damned business." His stubborn streak would make this session last for a good, long time, she realized, with a touch of what migh have been pleasure. Again, she pushed the button. Wolenczak's agonized scream was like music to her ears. * * * * * Alexander Bourne was a hell of a politician. He was also a hell of a lot of other things, none of which Lucas was supposedly old enough to know about. He had a feeling that he'd be getting a crash course in them before his time in Macronesia was through. A _thorough_ course. After Arkara had finished with him, he'd been dragged into a tiny, dark cell, nowhere near Ford. As he spent the undeterminable length of time between then and now thinking, his mind hit upon a disturbing thought. They'd had Ford from the beginning. They had him now. What about O'Neill? He could be just down the corridor, sitting in a tiny cell, just like the one Lucas had been in. Or he could be in an even worse situation. He could be on Arkara's favorite toy. Her neural exciter. *Stop,* he told himself. If O'Neill had been caught, he'd have been used against either Ford or Lucas. Chances were, O'Neill was perfectly safe. As the two Macronesians guards forced him into the anteroom of Bourne's office, Lucas was able to hear muffled voices. "He's not an easy person to get information out of," came a voice that could only be Arkara's. He'd been listening to it for God knew how long. "If you want him alive," her voice continued, "I--" The lead guard knocked, and Arkara cut herself off. Lucas was shoved into the room and toward a seat. With his hands manacled in front of him, it wasn't easy for him to maintain his balance, but he managed to walk into the room without falling. The two guards shoved him into a seat, and then Arkara and Schwartz surrounded him. "Mr. Wolenczak," Bourne said coldly. Then he corrected himself. "I'm sorry. _Ensign_ Wolenczak, would you care to explain yourself?" Did he have to ask? One of the first things Lucas had sworn to himself when Hudson had given him his comission was that he'd never betray the UEO. Not for real. "Wolenczak, Lucas. Serial number--" Bourne cut off Lucas' recitation. "Is that all your UEO allows its officers to say," Bourne asked, exasperated, "Or is it a condition limited only to _seaQuest_ personnel?" "President Bourne, holding a UEO officer against his or her will is a--" Again, Lucas was cut off. "Ah, but you seem to have forgotten one important detail. You resigned your commision and gained full Macronesian citizenship." "What?" Bourne started playing his "speech". Lucas remembered in vivid detail. "You and I both know that it was a--" As Bourne held up a hand, Lucas shut up. "Think carefully before you finish your sentence, Ensign," he warned. "Your `asylum' was provided in accordance with that statement." He paused and leaned closer to Lucas. "I doubt that you'd appreciate being charged with unlawful entry into Macronesian waters, international espionage, and committing perjury." Lucas' mind was reeling. Espionage, trespassing... The charges rung a bell. "Ensign Wolenczak," Bourne said, mock apologetically, "It seems you've painted yourself into quite a corner." *Yeah,* Lucas thought. *And Section Seven provided the brush.* "The only solution you have left," Bourne was saying, "Is to comply with my orders..." *Not likely.* "...And throw yourself on the mercy of the Macronesian government." As the guards forced him out of the office, Lucas wondered exactly what mercy Bourne had been talking about. Things were certainly looking bleak. * * * * * Sydney Arkara was getting frustrated. Never before in her life had she been this unable to obtain the information, or anything else, that she wanted from a prisoner. How was it possible that a mere _child_ could confound her? "Now, Ensign, I'll ask you again," she said for what was at least the hundreth time. "Why are you in Macronesia?" "Because the two of you are holding me here." His gaze encompassed both her and Bourne, who stood next to her. "Do you seriously think I'd stay here if I had a choice?" *If you knew how insane you were driving me, you just might.* Arkara sighed. "Very well, have it your way." She pressed the activator again. His scream had long since stopped giving her pleasure. Now, it just bored her. She turned to Bourne in frustration. "Alexander, this is getting us nowhere. Please, darling... Let me use more...effective methods." Even flirting didn't work this time. "I wish I could, but the things he knows..." He sighed, apparently as exasperated as she was. "You musn't do him permanent damage, dearest... at least not until you've learned all we need to know." "But, darling, it's been _hours_." Arkara's voice was somewhat whiny, and she knew it. She shook her head. "He must be drawing strength from somewhere..." She trailed off as an idea struck her. It was so obvious, that she couldn't believe she hadn't seen it sooner. "Or," she said as she looked up at the president. "From some_one_." Arkara smiled up at him. "Alexander, are you thinking what I'm thinking?" "That depends," he said with a smile. "What would you be thinking?" She was thinking about how pleasing it would be to slit his throat and give a speech at his memorial service. "I'm thinking," she answered aloud, "that this might be a good time to use our _other_ prisoner." "That reminds me of why I hired you," he said as he took her hand in his. *Don't be a simpering idiot,* she thought, even though she knew that for Bourne that would be impossible. "Because we compliment each other so perfectly." *Mm-hm... Not because I was the only applicant who was willing to sleep with you?* She forced herself to smile at him. "Oh, Alexander," she purred. "You're such a flirt." He bent down, and she allowed him to quickly kiss her. Out of long habit, she repressed a shudder. _Remember,_ she told herself firmly. *One day, he'll be strapped to one of these machines, and _you'll_ be in charge.* After they broke apart, she calmly, coolly stepped several paces away. Bourne motioned to a nearby guard. "Bring the commander in from his cell." As he left, Arkara noticed that Wolenczak had somewhat recovered. "So," he gasped out. "This is a typical Macronesian date. Dinner, torture, a movie..." The sarcasm in his voice, coupled with what she'd just had to endure, wasn't something she felt like stomaching with calm acceptance. So she pressed the button again. Just to hurt someone. For the first time in a while, she found some satisfaction in his scream. * * * * * Ford was sitting in his cell, thinking. He was contemplating the fact that he hadn't seen anyone, other than the usual guard, all day. No one had stopped by to coerce him, harass him, or just be cruel to him. He wondered where everybody was. Then, another Macronesian soldier entered the holding area. "The commander is to be taken to the interrogation room." The cell door was opened, and Ford was hauled roughly to his feet and out the door. He wasn't looking forward to his next meeting with the Macronesian government officials. *It's your duty,* he reminded himself firmly. He'd known that this would probably happen to him from the beginning. As they approached the door to the interrogation room, Ford could hear screams coming from within. As the seemingly endless scream assaulted him, Ford couldn't shake a feeling of familiarity. He knew that voice. As the door opened, he saw why it was so familiar. *My God... Lucas...* Ford's horror almost instantly turned into fury, as he saw the two Macronesians standing at the console. "You--" Ford couldn't begin to think of a curse vile enough. "How could even _you_ torture a child?!?" Annoyingly, Bourne refused to lose his composure. "He was old enough to commit espionage, he's old enough to pay the price." Bourne sighed. "On the other hand, we haven't made much progress." The words were like music to Ford's ears. "Which is why you've been brought here." Bourne gestured to the guards, who released Lucas from the neural exciter-- only to handcuff him and force him into a chair behind the console. The guards then shackled Ford to the device. Knowing the situation was hopeless, Ford didn't resist, preferring to save his strength. Lucas, ever the optimist, began by fighting like mad. Within moments, he'd caught Ford's take on the subject, and relaxed his struggles. Arkara settled herself next to the counter and looked at Lucas. "I think you know the question, Ensign." Ford knew Lucas to be one of the most loyal and compassionate people that he'd ever met. It was usually a positive trait. Now, though, it could get a lot of people killed. "Lucas, don't you dare," Ford commanded. "But--" Lucas cut himself off. Ford could see the emotional agony in Lucas' eyes. The pain made Ford even more determined to take whatever these monsters dished out. Arkara seemed to sense Lucas' weakness. She pressed the activator. Ford couldn't help it He screamed in pain. The agony lasted an eternity. When it finally eased, Ford saw that Lucas had gone dead white. Staring at him in horror and shock. "Answer the question," Arkara ordered. Her knack for striking while the iron was hot was sickening. Lucas looked from Ford to Arkara, then eventually back to Ford. "I'm sorry, Commander." For a moment, Ford was sure that Lucas would crack. But he found that he'd vastly underestimated the boy's strength. He should have realized that when Lucas had sucessfully carried through on an interrogation earlier. Even if Arkara _had_ been pushing him through, step by step. Lucas turned to face her, anger burning in his ice-blue eyes. "Forget it." Ford sighed in relief. Very short-lived relief, due the fact that Arkara pressed the infamous button. He cried out in renewed pain. "Why are you hurting him?!?" Lucas' voice was rough with impotent rage and unshed tears. "By not answering our questions," Bourne replied. "It is _you_ who is hurting him." Ford knew that to be ridiculous. Lucas seemed to agree, and said as much. Bourne shrugged. "Ridiculous, but effective." "Ensign," Arkara put in. "This machine has ten more settings, and I have all the time in the world to use them." Ford somehow doubted that he'd make it through ten more settings. Bourne moved over near Arkara and Lucas. "I would suggest that you cooperate." Lucas remained silent. Arkara looked to Bourne, who nodded. Despite the advance warning, Ford found it difficult to marshall the strength to brace himself. This time, disorientation was left in the agony's wake. "Why are you in Macronesia?" Ford had a feeling that he was going to hear Arkara asking that very often. The question, followed by wave after wave of searing pain. "I was sent to introduce a computer virus into your defense net. I was successful, and there's no way to stop it. The UEO will be sending a fleet over the border in about six hours." Ford saw Arkara and Bourne share a glance. Bourne nodded, and Arkara reached for the infamous button. For a moment, Ford thought that his blood had been replaced by lava in his veins. "I didn't realize that you had such a flair for the dramatic, Ensign." Bourne was one to talk. He'd practically turned the Spindrifter/Macronesian conflict into a propaganda movie. "Now," Bourne continued. "Answer the question." Lucas, seeing that they weren't falling for his previous story, tried a different tack. "I'm patient zero for a genetically engineered super-virus that can't be stopped. I've been here long enough to infect the entire capital. There's no cure." Ford knew that Lucas was an expert on the movies and television of the late twentieth century. He could repeat the plots of every one of them, if necessary, to try to find one that Bourne and Arkara would believe. "If you're going to lie," Bourne said, rolling his eyes. "At least put some effort into it." *I guess Bourne saw that one.* Before Arkara had a chance to reach for the activator, Lucas broke in. "Both myself and Commander Ford are androids. We are rigged to explode when the proper codes are transmitted by the UEO." Arkara glanced at Bourne, and the sarcasm was evident in her voice when she spoke. "Well, I suppose that androids can take higher settings. Perhaps we should test his explanation on the commander." *Bad choice, Lucas.* "An excellent idea," Bourne concurred. Ford saw Lucas close his eyes as Arkara's finger descended on the button. He heard Lucas trying desperately to break the chains binding him. Then all Ford heard was his own voice screaming. * * * * * Hudson knew that he would have to do something about the upcoming "reception". Knowing Bourne, it would be an excuse to parade Wolenczak around like some sort of prize. Trouble was, the ensign was a hell of a prize. As Henderson slowly entered the bridge, Hudson realized that his entire remaining senior staff was now here. He stood. "Lieutenant Hanley, you have the conn. Kimura, Piccolo, Henderson; the Wardroom. With questioning glances at each other, the three silently followed him out. He wasn't surprised at nor annoyed with their obvious curiosity, as long as it didn't interfere with their duties. As they followed him into the Wardroom, he steeled himself for the question he was about to ask. "Any volunteers?" Hudson knew that they knew what he meant. He might as well have asked who wanted to volunteer to have their memories ripped back from beyond the grave. He still would have gotten the same response: silence. He wished they wouldn't do this to him. He had enough on his mind than dealing with reluctant officers. "Very well then. Kimura..." As much as he'd hate to leave the Chaodai in charge of his boat, he didn't want to see what she might do if confronted with a man like Bourne. "...You could use some time at the conn. You'll have command while Piccolo and Henderson join me at the reception. I'll expect the two of you at the launch bay at 1845, in dress uniform. Dismissed." Piccolo and Kimura left immediately-- making sure to stay a few paces away from each other, Hudson noticed-- but Henderson stayed sitting. Hudson took a deep breath. He didn't have time to deal with anything else. "Lieutenant, was there something you wanted to discuss?" he asked, not even bothering to hide the impatience in his voice. "You want _me_ to go to Macronesia?" The shock and dismay was evident in her voice. That was when the impact of his order hit Hudson at full strength. "That was the general idea, yes." He knew that to go back on his orders would diminish his stature as an authority figure. As Captain, that was something that was unacceptable for him to do. "But sir," Henderson sounded lost as she paused, "I can't." *Thanks, Lieutenant. As if I didn't have enough on my mind without a guilt trip.* "Why not?" At the very least, he could require her to justify her words-- maybe he'd be able to ease her into his descision. She looked as though she was having a difficult time opening with what she had to say. "Because, sir," she said, taking a deep breath, "the last time I was there, not everyone came back." So that was what this was all about. Hudson should have known. Lieutenant Brody had been on everyone's minds since that ensign had announced Wolenczak's impromptu departure what seemed like so many days ago. He would have preferred to let the subject drop, but part of being CO was knowing how far a subordinate needed to be pushed, and in what direction. "Lieutenant," he said, "I never thought you'd be one to hide from your past." "Sir, I'm not hiding." "Then what are you doing?" was his quick retort. When she didn't respond immediately, he continued. "Despite what happened in the past, you have to accept your duty to the UEO. I refuse to accept anything less from an officer on my boat. If you have any further baseless complaints. I suggest you would keep them to yourself. Is that clear?" By the time he'd fomoshed, she no longer appeared unhappy with his descision. She looked downright miserable. But she nodded, nontheless, and gave him a slight nod of her hand. "Yes, sir." "Dismissed." By that point, she would have left even if he hadn't have said anything. He was left alone in the Wardroom when the door shut. *Oliver Hudson,* he asked himself, *what have you done?* * * * * * Piccolo waited outside of the wardroom for Henderson to come out. He was worried about her. After all she'd been through, being forced into going to a Macronesian party was the _last_ thing she needed. The door opened without warning, and Henderson walked out, nearly stepping on Piccolo's foot. He almost told her to be more careful, but she looked so lost and upset, that Piccolo wanted to take her into his arms and comfort her. But after what happened before...he decided to restrain himself. "He didn't change his mind," Piccolo said instead. She shook her head. "Mm-mm." Piccolo was starting to feel angry. It was bad enough that Hudson was going to let Kimura have command while they were gone- -forcing Henderson into a situation like this was complicating matters past what could reasonably be allowed. "He said I've got to stop hiding from the past." Piccolo blinked, stunned at the captain's insensitivity. "Hiding from the past?" he repeated incredulously. "What's he talkin' about? Lonnie, he's got no right--" She cut him off with a wave of her hand. "Tony, don't" She took a deep breath. "He's right." Piccolo didn't think that he'd ever been so off-balance than he'd been recently. "What do you mean he's right?" "He's right," she repeated slowly. "I can't avoid what happened forever." *Why the hell not?* Piccolo didn't want to have to pick up the pieces if she confronted it. "I've got to face it, Tony," Henderson said quietly. "Lonnie, we all ready faced it. Remember?" How could she not? They'd both been blindsided by their friend and comrade's death. "That lady, the recording, my dad and the doughnut shop?" Henderson seemed to sense his confusion. She smiled at him. "No, Tony," she said calmly, "That's not what I mean. I can't avoid _Macronesia_ forever." As she spoke the name of the alliance that had nearly executed her, Henderson shuddered violently, and folded her arms accross her chest, hugging herself as though she were freezing. Piccolo didn't know what to make of her reaction. However, it did reinforce his feeling that something had happened to her there, _before_ the rescue. Hell, he'd been in prison, and he knew some of the things that went on there. He still shied away from thinking of them. "Lonnie," he said eventually, "There's something you're not tellin' me." He desperately wanted to help her, but didn't know how. He reached out and touched her shoulder but she flinched away, as though his touch burned her. She looked down at the deck. "I can't talk about it." She turned away. "I'll see you at 1845." Piccolo nodded. In a way, he supposed that it was a _good_ thing that she hadn't told him what had happened to her. That way, he didn't know the proper response. Piccolo didn't think the UEO would like it very much if he strangled the Macronesian president at a diplomatic function. He turned to was walk down the corridor, fuming. He most definitely did _not_ want to go to any party in Macronesia. Especially one hosted by Alexander Bourne. As he stalked toward his quarters, Piccolo noticed a familiar, hulking form next to him. "Hey, Tony," Dagwood slowly intoned. "Hey," Piccolo responded tonelessly. Under normal circumstances, he didn't mind Dagwood's company. In fact, sometimes he enjoyed it. Now, however, he just wanted to be alone. "What is wrong?" Dagwood asked. At first, Piccolo was tempted to tell the GELF that he wouldn't understand. But something about Dagwood suggested concern, even worry, about Piccolo's welfare. Another's caring about him was still a new sensation for Piccolo, and not an entirely unwelcome one. "Well, I, uh," Piccolo stuttered, trying to find simple words for a complex situation, "There's this party, see, an' I don't wanna go." "Why?" The simple, child-like question stopped Piccolo cold. Why _didn't_ he want to go? He prided himself on being the life of the party wherever he went, and he didn't doubt that a Macronesian diplomatic function would desperately _need_ livening up. *Why don't you just tell him?* his mind asked, taunting him. *You're _afraid_. Afraid that you won't be able to control yourself if she--* Piccolo cut off the unwelcome thought with a shake of his head. Dagwood was still waiting for an answer, so Piccolo said the first plausible thing that came to mind. The truth. An edited version, but the truth nonetheless. "It's Lonnie," he heard himself say. He heard his mind yelling at him for not consulting it before beginning. Still, the damage had been done. He had to go with it. "We, uh, we had a, well, uh, she kissed me, an' I, uh, kinda kissed her back, an', uh..." Piccolo trailed off, not quite knowing how to put the rest of what had happened. "Why?" Dagwood asked guilelessly. Piccolo shrugged. "She needed a friend, I guess." *Mosta the rest of her friends-- _our_ friends-- ain't around anymore.* Dagwood blinked. "If she needs a friend," he asked slowly, "Why do you not want to be her friend?" It was Piccolo's turn to be confused. "Huh?" "She needs a friend to go to the party. You don't want to go. So, you do not want to be her friend." Circular logic. The worst kind, as far as Piccolo was concerned. "No, Dag, that ain't it. See..." Piccolo trailed off as he realized that, in his own way, Dagwood had a point. Henderson was going to need all the support she could get to get through this. After what happened last time, she might not be able to hold on. "Thanks," he finished, grinning. Dagwood looked at him like a bewildered child. "For what?" Piccolo shrugged. "For remindin' me that Lonnie's gonna need all the friends she can get." Dagwood still looked somewhat confused. "Umm..." Then he nodded, looking pleased with himself. "Welcome," he said. Piccolo clapped Dagwood on the shoulder and headed for his quarters to change. After all, he had a party to go to. * * * * * The absurdity of her situation almost made Henderson want to laugh. Here she was, in Macronesia, at a _party_, when last time, she'd barely managed to escape with her life. Now, she'd be lucky if she'd escape from the dance floor with her feet intact. "Sorry," Piccolo muttered for the umpteenth time that evening. While a great friend, and a good officer, a dancer, he was not. *I miss Jonathan.* She vividly remembered the events on the _Omni Pacific_. Her first date with Ford. What a great dancer he was. She could've danced all night in his arms. Well, she _would_ have, had Deon not decided to sabotage the train. As the music ended, Piccolo stepped on her foot for the final time. He retreated off of the floor, and she followed. For some reason, Piccolo kept staring across the room. After a few minutes, she couldn't stand it anymore. "What?" she asked. Piccolo tilted his head in the direction he'd been staring. "Look over there," he whispered. As her gaze moved to the area he'd indicated, she softly gasped. Heading directly toward Hudson and Montgomery was a certain multi-billionaire they all knew-- and _didn't_ love. "I hope the captain doesn't kill him," Piccolo murmured. Remembering the _Omni_, Henderson shook her head. "I wish I could say the same." TO BE CONTINUED... Copyright 1996 Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie =========================== PART 15 ===================================== Disclaimer: The following story belongs to Rachel Brody and Melissa Beattie. Duplication is _strictly prohibited_ without their permission. For the sake of sanity, please refrain from posting or sending this to others without their permission. Send Questions, comments, and constructive criticism to: bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Introduction: This story takes place after "Weapons of War". The story is set up, to some degree, in "Fusion", "Kaos Theory", and "Cost of Living", which are also by Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie. "Necessary Evils" (part III) By Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Part 15 of 24 Chapter 15: Hudson had never liked dress uniforms. They were too tight around the collar, for one thing, and around the middle...of course, that part of it might be his fault, and not the uniform's. What _was_ the uniform's fault, at least partially, was that he was about ready to scream. He had been forced to attend this ridiculous "reception", which he knew was actually just an excuse for Bourne to show off the latest addition to his "collection". Additionally, both of Montgomery's lieutenants were here. Chandler had decided to make a nuisance of himself by tagging after Hudson everywhere he went. As though he was waiting for Hudson to slip up. Wolenczak was nowhere in sight. And the one person who _was_ in sight was turning his stomach. But unfortunately, Montgomery had given him strict orders to "mingle". Hudson had always hated mingling, especially when he was wearing this damned dress uniform... He straightened as Deon approached, resolving not to lose his composure in front of these people. No matter how much he was provoked. He tried to force a smile onto his face as he held out a hand, perfectly aware of the fact the Montgomery was watching him. "Larry Deon. I haven't seen you for quite a while." *Not since you almost killed three of my people...* "Not since your fiasco over the _Omni_ incident." The fake grin on Deon's face as they shook hands was enough to make Hudson forget his resolution of several minutes ago. "_My_ fiasco over the _Omni_--" Chandler looked at him warningly. "Captain..." Before Hudson had the chance to ignore him, Bourne had appeared, seemingly from nowhere. To Hudson's disgust, Chandler willingly shook hands with the President. *Doesn't he know what happened last time?* Hudson knew that he shouldn't think about it, but the thought pounced before he had the chance to put up a defense against it. He had chided Henderson for not putting it behind her. *Damn it, Oliver, take your own advice. This is _your_ duty to the UEO. Accept it.* He didn't realize that Bourne was holding out his hand to shake until the moment to accept it had passed. Not that he would have taken it anyway. "Captain Hudson..." Bourne was grinning. The bastard was enjoying himself. "It's so nice to see you again under theses more...pleasant conditions." *Depends on your point of view.* Hudson held back a disgusted shudder and contemplated begging off and going looking for Henderson and Piccolo. However, one glance towards Chandler told him _exactly_ what would happen if he did. Bourne didn't notice the sideways glance, and continued talking. "I see you brought Lieutenant Henderson with you...I trust she'll behave herself?" Hudson could have thought of several responses to that, all of which involved massive use of colorful metaphors and the satisfying crash of his fist against Bourne's jaw. However, he knew that if he followed through on his impulse, not only would Montgomery be furious-- which he didn't really care about-- but he'd probably never make it out of the room alive. If Bourne thought he hadn't noticed the armed sentries at every door, he was wrong. "My Lieutenant--" He would have finished the sentence, after all, he had to defend his people, but Chandler, noticing the heightened tension, intervened. "Mr. President, you'll have to excuse Captain Hudson. He's under a great deal of stress as a result of this...incident." "That _does_ seem to be a running theme with Captain Hudson. doesn't it." At that moment, Hudson's anger found a new target. Deon's self-satisfied smirk was beginning to get on his nerves. *Beginning? His entire _face_ has been on my nerves for years.* Just as Hudson was getting ready to act on his pent-up anger, a fifth party arrived. The woman who approached them from the opposite direction was one that Hudson had never seen before. Of course, knowing at least a small amount about Bourne's tendencies towards the fairer sex, he knew that he shouldn't have been so surprised. As she passed Bourne a glass, Hudson found himself captivated by her appearance. Wearing a cocktail dress, the shade of which was somewhere between sapphire and royal blue, she gave off an aura of power and self-confidence that didn't quite fit the manner in which she perched next to Bourne, hanging on his every word. But the most disturbing thing about her was the one that Bourne apparently hadn't noticed: the look in her eyes as she stared at him. It was the cool, disdainful, and superior glare of a spider eyeing a fly caught in its web-- a fly that didn't yet realize the seriousness of its plight. It wasn't until she shifted her gaze to Hudson that he realized he had been staring. Her eyes flitted briefly over his rank stripes, and he could see the wheels in her head turning, contemplating a line of attack. However, when she spoke, her voice was silky and unnaturally polite. "You must be the Captain Hudson that Lucas won't stop talking about." The way that she mentioned Wolenczak: offhandedly, as though she had some sort of right to be talking about him... Hudson was infuriated. He could tell in a second that not only was she intelligent-- something he hadn't expected, especially not in a woman who would hang on Bourne like she was-- but she was dangerous. Very dangerous. "Speaking of Ensign Wolenczak--" "He's resigned his commission." Bourne's interruption was one that Hudson knew that the bloodsucking leach was taking enjoyment out of. Not only had he managed to lure away one of the Navy's brightest people, but he also got to lord it over the Ensign's former CO. *I don't have time for your asinine red tape!* Hudson almost made the mistake of letting the words roll off his tongue. Luckily, he managed to catch them before it happened. "Then speaking of _Mr._ Wolenczak, I don't think I've seen him here tonight." He had never been one for subtlety. As he had once told McGath, procedure could go to hell where his people were involved. *That was right before you "kidnapped" Larry Deon,* he reminded himself with an inward chuckle. "We agreed that is would be a bad idea for him to attend." The maternal protectiveness in the woman's voice was evident enough for Hudson's resolve to weaken, if only for a second. Was it possible that Lucas' defection was for real? *That's ridiculous.* The far more likely possibility was that she was lying. *Of course she's lying. When was the last time that a Macronesian told the truth?* "And he had a part in this decision?" She drew back, seemingly offended. "Of course he did." She looked to Bourne, and his slight nod seemed enough to let her continue. "In fact, both Alexander and myself tried to convince him that he would have a _lovely_ time if he did come..." She was on a first name basis with Bourne? How much of this did Hudson want to know? "...but he said that he would feel more comfortable staying back at the complex with Dr. Murphy and Dr. Malcom." "Convinced him my ass." Too late, Hudson realized that he had spoken the thought aloud. He wondered if swearing at a fascist dictator's "female companion" was enough to warrant a demotion. Chandler, on the other hand, already knew the answer. From the look on his face, Hudson could tell that if he didn't shape up - and _fast_-- dirty looks weren't all that would get shot in his direction. As Hudson shirked from the obvious political toadying that was going on, Chandler stepped in, extending a hand to the woman. "I'm afraid we haven't met," he said as he looked her over. "My name is--" Hudson's rather generous estimate of her gall jumped even higher when she interrupted Chandler in midsentance. "Lieutenant Pete Chandler." She was good at her job, that was for sure. Whatever her job may be. Chandler's look of barely-bridled anger smoothed over in seconds, replaced by a stoic mask. She put out a gloved hand and continued. "Sydney Arkara." She looked at Bourne, and this time Hudson thought he could see a glimmer of appreciation in her eyes. "Chief Advisor to--" *Hate to break up a good party-- good thing this isn't one of them.* "I'm afraid that I'm going to have to insist on speaking to Mr. Wolenczak and Commander Ford." The statement had been directed to Bourne, but from the speed with which Arkara responded to it, Hudson could tell that his demand had been an expected one. "Regrettably, there was a struggle on board the Stinger. Lucas informed us of the Commander's accidental death once he arrived." Hudson hadn't been ready for that. Of course, he had known that it was a possibility, maybe even an inevitability, that some of his people would die. But not so many of them...and not so soon... After almost ten seconds of stunned silence, Hudson finally found his voice. "That's an unacceptable explanation." She sighed, obviously annoyed with his unwillingness to accept her story. *That's all it could be...Wolenczak would never be able to kill someone he had known for so long...* The problem with that line of reasoning was the Hudson hadn't know the ensign long enough to get a clear reading of his character. No matter how well he might think he knew he knew the boy, there was always the fact that he had never really tried to become friendly with anyone on his crew-- except perhaps Piccolo, and he was more of a project than anything else. "True as that may be," Arkara said in the same tone that one might use with a stubborn child, "Lucas has requested asylum and been granted Macronesian citizenship." *What an honor.* Arkara's next sentence told Hudson that she knew exactly what he was contemplating. "He is also being closely protected by four of the best officer we possess. So please, _Captain_," and here she let a note of condescension creep into her voice, "let's not have any dramatic `rescues' this time." Hudson shook his head. "I still insist on speaking to him." He was well aware of the fact that he was causing a minor scene, but in truth, he didn't care. He wasn't going to be embarrassed for wanting to do his job to the best of his ability, and if everyone else couldn't handle that, it was their problem. "I don't think so." So Bourne wasn't going to let his "advisor" continue speaking for him any longer? Fine. Hudson would much rather cut the middle man-- or woman, as the case may be-- and spoken with the President from the very beginning. *Not that anything could ever beat never seeing either of them ever again.* "Why not?" He hadn't consciously meant for the question to come out in such a menacing tone, but was vaguely appreciative when Bourne took a step back. Unfortunately, it was becoming increasingly clear that Hudson and didn't share an appreciation for much. "Leanne," Chandler called as Michaels walked by, "Why don't you go introduce the Captain to Dr. Ayyash...who's on the other side of the room." Being dismissed by a superior officer in front of his enemies was never something that Hudson enjoyed. However, it was even worse being handed into the custody of the snake who had tried to have two of his officers killed. Michaels, on the other hand, looked as though she was going to enjoy herself it if it killed her. *Or if _I_ do.* She grabbed him by the arm and shoved him towards the other end of the room, and he was barely able to restrain himself from shouting something akin to: "go to Hell" in Chandler's general direction. He couldn't believe he was being pushed around by two Section Seven lieutenants. Unfortunately, there wasn't much he could do about it. Due to his fury, he was only dimly aware of passing by Henderson and Piccolo as he was propelled across the room. * * * * * Everything here brought back memories. The sounds of the voices, the aroma of the food on the tables... One of the worst ones had been provoked as Tony had walked her past the armed sentries at the door on their way in. One of them had been a young boy. Their eyes hadn't met. They hadn't needed to. Henderson knew exactly what she would have seen in his eyes if she had tried to meet them. She would see the same proud, fierce, bright, undying fires of loyalty that had always burned so hotly in Jim's eyes. He had laid down his life for her, and she had never known why. Just like she would never know why another person had died for her that day. The Macronesian boy who had been her guard. She hadn't known his name. They had only known each other for a few days. And he hadn't known the kind of freedom he was giving her when he gave up his own life. *And thanks to me, he never will.* What had his family been told? He couldn't have been older than 19 or 20. She couldn't seen the cold, cruel face of one of the Macronesian generals sending a letter home to that boy's parents. *He had been happy-- or at least, content. Why couldn't I have let him hold on to that pseudo-innocence just a little while longer? Why did I have to tell him what was going on, right beneath his nose?* She should have kept her mouth shut and let him live in blissful ignorance for a while longer. He might have been helping the wrong side, but-- *Who am I to say it was the wrong side? I'm sure he never thought so before _I_ arrived.* "Are you okay? The question ripped her violently away from her tortured thoughts. She looked up from the floor, her gaze meeting Piccolo's. She could tell from his expression that he was concerned. "Huh?" "You look kinda out of it." She saw his arm leave his side, as though he was going to put it around her shoulder. Then, at the last moment, it snapped back down. Even though they both knew that she hadn't meant anything, and he had forgiven her, he was going to be cautious. *And he has every right to be. _Damn_ it, what was I thinking?* She briskly rubbed her arms, hoping that it might help the sudden chill that she felt go away. It was bad enough that she had to be here, but if Tony turned standoffish... "Is it just me, or is it kind of chilly in here?" *Bright idea. Great conversation continuer, Lonnie.* "It's just you." The grin on Tony's face told her that he was only joking around, but it didn't make her feel any better. She didn't want to tell him that it wasn't working, especially not since he was having obvious difficulty speaking to her at all. But if he tried to keep up this "stiff upper lip" mentality, she'd wind up killing him. "It feels cold." She looked around, and it was several seconds before she realized the exact cause of her discomfort. Bourne was standing nearby, only a few dozen feet away. *That explains that.* "But maybe it goes with the territory." "Especially when the territory is Macronesia." Piccolo had known that Henderson would be uncomfortable here. Working so closely with her...*so incredibly close to her...* He had a sense of what she would and wouldn't be able to handle. Damn Hudson for forcing her into this, anyway. Why couldn't he have assigned Kimura? *Right. And then you could deal with the defector instead of with Lonnie.* But the problem was that he really _didn't_ want to deal with Henderson. Even though they had made up, he still felt uncomfortable. She had probably been able to sense that when he had jerked his arm back. "You want to go outside?" She nodded, and seemed vaguely relieved at his suggestion. He managed to fight down his apprehension and take her arm, then guided her out onto a small moonlit balcony. *Come on, Tony,* he told himself, *you know what the two of you almost did. Holding her _hand_ shouldn't be so difficult.* It would have been easier if the balcony hadn't been bathed in perfect, romantic, pearly-blue moonbeams. "Is this any better?" He asked it half-hesitantly, almost hoping that she'd want to go back inside...*where there are other people.( A second voice interrupted the first with a harsh chuckle. *Whatsa matter, Tony? Finally find a girl you know you can't have? I'm disappointed.* "Not really, but at least I can't see him anymore." She seemed pale...or was it the lighting? "See who?" She gave him a rueful glance. "Who do you think?" When her question was met with a blank stare, she continued. "President Bourne." Then he realized why she had been so uneasy all night. He had expected the root for her discomfort to be something more like his own: dealing with returning to where Brody had died. But for Lonnie, the source of the problem was far more personal. He briefly wondered just how personal it was. Then he shook his head, ever so slightly. He didn't want to know. "Oh." It was all that there was to say, which was probably why it was followed so closely by silence. *Well, what did I expect?* * * * * * When they got back to the _seaQuest_, Chandler was dead meat. Michaels couldn't believe he had actually had the nerve to load Hudson off on her. As if she wanted to babysit the idiot. So as soon as she saw Montgomery, chatting it up with some high-placed diplomats, she dragged Hudson across the room. "Here," was all she muttered before she stormed off. Leave it to Chandler to ruin what could have been an almost pleasant evening. * * * * * When the door onto the balcony opened, Piccolo was relieved. At least, until he saw who was walking out. Deon's attentions were focused on Henderson. And if there was one thing that Piccolo was sure of, it was that Lonnie didn't need Larry Deon's "attentions". Especially not now. However, that fact didn't seem to stop the billionaire as he strode confidently to the railing and stared directly into Henderson's eyes. "Beautiful view, isn't it?" Piccolo felt a twinge of anger-- or was it jealousy?-- stir deep inside his gut. How dare Deon barge out here and start talking to Lonnie? *Puh-lease. Tony, you had your chance, and you turned it down for the sake of _friendship_. If Deon's the next one to make a move...* He cut off the thought to make room for his next sentence. "You talkin' about the city, or the Lieutenant?" Deon appeared slightly miffed by the question, as though he hadn't expected Piccolo to intervene on Henderson's behalf. But his response was directed to her, just the same. "Really, Lieutenant, I don't know what you've heard, but you don't need a bodyguard to protect you." From Deon, an entire army probably wouldn't be enough. "He's a close friend." The emphasis she placed on "friend" was clear. She was warning Piccolo to keep his distance. That was something he wasn't willing to do. He moved closer and forced his arm around her waist, then looked at Deon and summoned what he hoped was an exceedingly protective expression. He wasn't too far off, either. "A _very_ close friend." He hoped it would be enough. *Really, Tony, give it up! You gave up your claim on her!* *I never _had_ a damned claim! *But you know you want one...* Henderson deftly pushed his arm away. "A friend." He wished that he could just walk away and not worry about it. After all: she was a big girl, and she could take care of herself. *Just like with Chandler? If you hadn't shown up when you did...* "And are you in charge of selecting the Lieutenant's friends?" "Only when she looks like she's about to make a bad decision." In Piccolo's mind, at least, there wasn't a worse choice for a "friend" for Henderson than Larry Deon-- and he was pretty sure that the conglomerate had things other than friendship in mind. Deon looked deflated. "What a shame," he said, attempting a partial recovery. "I was just going to ask her if she'd consider joining me on a tour of my facilities." As the double entendre sank in, warning bells began going off in Piccolo's head. "And what facilities would those be?" Deon appeared insulted. "The Macronesian branch of my company, of course." He narrowed his eyes. "What other facilities would I be talking about?" Piccolo could feel the heat creeping into his cheeks as he realized that Deon's intentions-- for the moment, at least-- were innocent. "You mean in my capacity as an officer in the UEO Navy, don't you?" At least Henderson wasn't going to let her distraction alter his judgment-- at least, Piccolo hoped she wasn't. But not even her slight suspicion seemed enough to get on Deon's nerves. "What other capacity would I mean?" Piccolo had to give him credit-- he was a smooth talker. "In that case," Henderson said, "As an official UEO representative, I'd be honored." On second thought, perhaps Lonnie was losing her perspective. "Perhaps at 0800 tomorrow?" Now, Deon's satisfaction became obvious. "I'll be waiting at the airlock." As Piccolo's mind raced, trying to come up with some way to stop Henderson from making a big mistake, the door of the balcony opened again. Montgomery walked out, Hudson in tow. Piccolo's breathing rate sped up, just looking at the woman who he knew had to have been the one to order the two attempts on his life. Hudson looked, if possible, even more perturbed by Deon's presence than by Montgomery's. "Mr. Piccolo," he said with a suspicious glare towards Deon and Henderson, "Is there a problem out here?" Piccolo's own eyes connected with Henderson's. *Yeah. _Big_ problem.* But he couldn't just come out and say that. "'Pends on your point of view, sir." Deon shot him withering glare before shifting his gaze to Hudson. "Your Lieutenant and I attempting to have a civilized conversation." Apparently, Hudson knew better than to take Deon at his word. He turned to Henderson. "Lieutenant?" "Everyone is fine, sir." Piccolo noticed that her expression was colder than usual-- she must still have been annoyed with Hudson for forcing her to come along. "I'm fine. Mr. Deon and I were making plans for tomorrow." Her tone was brusque. "What sort of plans?" Hudson demanded. Deon's smirk was enough to make Piccolo ill. "I seriously doubt," Deon began, his tone one of pure disgust, "that your position allows you to pry into the private lives of your officers." When a moment passed without Hudson responding, Piccolo almost choked. However, Deon seemed comfortable with his success in throwing Hudson off-balance. He turned to Henderson. "Tomorrow morning, Lieutenant," he said, putting an almost undetectable emphasis on the title, as if to show Hudson that his suspicion was unjustified-- which Piccolo knew it wasn't. "0800 hours." Henderson flushed at the formality. "Until then," she replied. She held out a hand-- to shake, no doubt. Unfortunately, Deon either took it the wrong way or didn't care. He took her hand in his and quickly kissed it. Piccolo could almost see the gears running in Hudson's head as the captain smoldered. Henderson, on the other hand, seemed fine once she recovered from the initial shock. However, Piccolo noticed, she didn't waste any time pulling her hand away once Deon had finished. He flashed her a final grin, then left-- pushing his way past Hudson without ceremony. Once he was gone, Hudson exploded. "Lieutenant," he said quietly, "would you care to explain yourself?" Henderson immediately snapped to an attention-like position. "It seemed like the best way to gather information on his activities, sir." "Henderson," Hudson said, his manner suddenly shifting, "I realize that he's dead, but there's no need to--" Piccolo felt almost as shocked as Henderson looked. They already knew about Tim. According to all reports, Lucas was in the capitol. That left-- "What?!? Who's dead?" Henderson's voice had suddenly become tight, and her complexion was dead white. Hudson's uneasy hesitation was enough to confirm Piccolo's fear. Apparently, it was enough for Henderson, too. "Jonathan..." Hudson shook his head. "I'm sorry, Henderson. I hadn't meant to break it to you in quite that way." He took a deep breath and assumed what Piccolo recognized by now as his "official" posture. "The information comes directly from President Bourne. He claims that Lucas shot--" "Lucas wouldn't do that." Henderson said, her voice as close to shouting as it could come without the volume. "I know he wouldn't do that!" But Piccolo knew that there were a lot of things-- about a lot of people-- that none of them knew. O'Neill's death had been an all-to-present reminder of that fact. "I have the feeling that we didn't know Mr. Wolenczak as well as we'd thought we did." Although Hudson's tone was almost apologetic, Piccolo could tell that he was battling an inner fury that no longer had anything to do with Deon's advances towards Henderson. "No, Captain," Henderson said, a touch of her own anger barely coloring her voice, even though her skin was still pale. "With all due respect," she added, her tone of voice implying just how much--or how little-- respect she thought was due, "You never knew him as well as we did." "Lieutenant," Montgomery said, her voice cold and uncaring, "The facts speak for themselves." Piccolo couldn't believe she had the nerve to say something like that. "And you never knew him at all!" Henderson echoed his own unspoken fury. "Lucas is incapable of doing something like that!" Her fury, hot as it was, didn't melt the block of ice that Piccolo was now sure Montgomery was made of. "It doesn't take much to pull a trigger." Montgomery's tone was now a taunting one. Piccolo supposed she would know-- her lack of respect for the sanctity of life was rivaled only by President Bourne. Henderson turned towards Piccolo, now almost in tears. he had to resist the urge to give her a hug-- and not only because of Hudson's presence. He didn't know if he could trust himself to stop at a point where the word "plutonic" still applied. "Tony," she said, her voice now shaky, "Let's go." Se directed a fury-filled glare and Montgomery, then briefly at Hudson. "I'm not going to listen to this any more. Piccolo looked towards Hudson, who gave something that might have been an approving nod. "Yeah," he said, for Henderson's benefit. "You look like you could use a good night's sleep." As Lonnie struggled to retain a semblance of composure, Piccolo shrugged off his unease and put an arm around her shoulders, then gently led her inside. Earlier, when they'd first arrived, Piccolo had been too busy avoiding diplomats and certain unnamed fascist dictators to pay much attention to the room itself. Not, however, he realized that whatever the Macronesians lacked in common courtesy, they made up for when they gave parties. It was because he was paying attention to the decor rather than the guests that he didn't realize until it was too late whose cold, gray-brown eyes were following them-- and who had managed to approach the duo unnoticed. "Why, hello Lenore." Henderson immediately stiffened in Piccolo's arms as Bourne walked from behind them to inside their line of sight. When Henderson made no move to return his greeting, Bourne frowned. "So good to see you again." Henderson's teeth were clenched, but her voice was shaking as she replied. "Too bad the feeling isn't mutual." Bourne's stare was disapproving as he moved closer. Piccolo noticed that his eyes were tracing up and down Henderson's body in a very unnerving manner. He instinctively tightened his grip on her shoulder-- as if that would help. "We were just leavin'," he interjected. After her encounter with an overeager Deon, and what Hudson and Montgomery had just told her, Bourne was the last person Piccolo wanted anywhere near Henderson. "'Scuse us." He took a step back, intending to leave without further incident. Unfortunately, Bourne had other plans. He sidestepped into their path, intercepting them before they could leave. "Now that's no way to treat your host." "I'm sorry you feel that way," Henderson said, her voice colder than the farthest reaches of space. "We won't trouble you any longer." Piccolo was surprised that she could force herself to talk to the man who had nearly had her executed-- and God knew what else. "Oh," Bourne practically purred, "It's no trouble. Really. In fact," he said, looking directly at Henderson, "Your radiance illuminates the entire room. In fact," Bourne said, snapping his fingers as though an idea had just occurred to him, "I insist that you stay and meet some of my subordinates." Henderson walked right up to Bourne and, with more cool than Piccolo thought he'd ever be able to manage, Henderson stared into his eyes. "No," she said coolly, "Thank you." And she tried to push past him. But then, he put his hand on her shoulder. She froze, and their eyes locked, in a silent battle that Piccolo suspected he didn't know the half of. "Lonnie," Piccolo said, trying to help, "We've gotta go." Neither responded, so focused on their battle of wills that Piccolo doubted they'd have noticed if the Earth stopped rotating. He looked from one to the other, his eyes moving back and fourth so fast that it felt like he was watching a tennis match. It was only when Piccolo saw the tiny tremors racking Henderson's body, not yet noticeable to Bourne, that he decided to act. But, as he moved closer, he saw that while Henderson gave little outward sign of fear, her eyes were terror-filled. He'd never seen her in a state like this before. As for Bourne, there was a strange hunger in his cold gray-brown eyes, as though he was trying to gorge himself on her raw fear. "Lonnie," Piccolo called again, this time physically pulling her away, "We've gotta go." She nodded, and he escorted her out. She was practically the picture of calm, given what had just happened. He was awed by her strength. Once they'd made it out of the room and into a deserted corridor, though, she deflated instantly. "Tony..." she said, clutching his arm like a lifeline, "Help me..." Piccolo nodded, unsure of what to do. "It's okay, Lonnie," he said, knowing full-well that it most emphatically was not. "Just hold on." She nodded, and silently they made their way back to the ship. TO BE CONTINUED... Copyright 1996 Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie =========================== PART 16 ===================================== Disclaimer: The following story belongs to Rachel Brody and Melissa Beattie. Duplication is _strictly prohibited_ without their permission. For the sake of sanity, please refrain from posting or sending this to others without their permission. Send Questions, comments, and constructive critiscism to: bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Introduction: This story takes place after "Weapons of War". The story is set up, to some degree, in "Fusion", "Kaos Theory", and "Cost of Living", which are also by Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie. "Necessary Evils" (part III) By Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Part 16 of 24 Chapter 16: Henderson was barely able to hold herself together until Piccolo got her to her quarters. But as Piccolo had half- expected, she collapsed onto her bed almost the same instant they arrived., "Lonnie," he asked concerned, "Are you okay?" She was silent. It worried him. "Lonnie," he repeated, reaching out to touch her shoulder, "What's wrong?" The second that his hand made contact, she recoiled and violently shoved him away, nearly knocking him over. "Get your hands off me!" she practically screamed, drawing even further away. "What?!?" Piccolo asked, startled. "What did I do?!?" He hadn't been sure of what to expect from her, but he hadn't expected _this_. She blinked, swallowing hard. "Nothing," she told him, voice shaking, "_You_ never did anything." "Who did?" Piccolo could tell by her odd emphasis that someone had done something to her. And, given their current situation, he had a definite suspicion as to who. "I..." She looked down. "I can't..." Henderson took a deep breath. "I can't tell you." She shuddered. "It's too horrible." "You can tell me anything." Henderson looked up, and for a moment, he thought that she was about to tell him. The moment passed. Henderson looked back down at the deck. "You couldn't understand." Her statement sparked an ember into a raging flame inside of him. All through his life, he'd been told he couldn't understand things. And it used to be that he usually agreed. But now, with all the work he'd done... And to have Lonnie, of all people, telling him he was incapable of something was the last straw. Especially since the feeling he had was telling him that her sudden shakiness had a lot to do with the time she'd been forced to spend in Macronesia. "Why the hell not?!?" he exploded angrily. "In case you forgot, _I've_ been a hostage too!" The memories of the few days he'd been in South America were still all-too-vivid. His gills still tingled when he thought about it. "I'm an ex-con, too! So don't _you_ be tellin' _me_ that I _can't understand_!" She looked away, trembling again, and breathing in shallow gasps. He calmed immediately as he realized that his tirade may have shot one of his last remaining friendships straight to Hell. With the amount of good he wouldn't do, he should leave. She could work things out on her own. He'd done that before, and she'd always been okay. She seemed to prefer getting through hard times alone, when Ford wasn't around. But instead of leaving, he walked over and sat down next to her on the bed. "Sorry," he said quietly, knowing that it wasn't nearly enough. "I didn't mean to blow up at you like that." It was the least he could say. She murmured something unintelligible. "What?" Piccolo asked gently. "It was...him." She took a deep breath and looked up, into Piccolo's questioning eyes. "Bourne." Piccolo forced down a wave of nausea as he realized that what she was about to tell him could be a thousand times more serious than he'd thought. Knowing that he was on shaky ground, he edged closer to her. He hated to be the one to ask, but this had to come out. "What did he do?" It was a few moments before she answered him. "He...touched me," she whispered. For a moment, Piccolo couldn't speak. There was literally nothing he could force from his throat. The room was silent. Images began reeling through his head-- the torture they'd been through when they'd found out Lonnie was going to be killing, then his frustration-- and everyone else's-- when McGath had decided to use diplomicy with Bourne, the look in Ford's eyes as he was told he couldn't go on the rescue team, and the look in Jim's as he lay on the shuttle floor. The thought of Bourne going anywhere near Henderson was enough to make him see red. A deep, dark, liquid, sticky red. One he'd felt before, felt flowing out over his hands as he fought to keep a friend from death's door. Blood red. "I'll kill him," he whispered, getting up from her bed. "Tony--" Henderson began, before Piccolo cut her off. "Don't," he told her, standing and moving toward the door. "I'll tear the bastard to shreds with my bare hands." "Tony," Henderson tried again, getting up off of the bed, "Please! You'll only get yourself killed!" She grabed his arm, physically restraining him from leaving the room. "I -" she looked down again, this time at her hands. "I don't think that I could take that again." "But--" Henderson shook her head. "No." Before he could protest, she continued. "No buts." Piccolo sighed, and shook his head. "Lonnie, I can't--" "Please." It was only a word-- barely even that. But Piccolo knew he couldn't refuse. He looked at the floor, feeling like if he agreed he'd be betraying her. But if he didn't, what could he do? As much as he wanted to get his hands around Bourne's throat, he knew it was impossible. Firsthand, he'd seen how many guards there were in the capital. The rescue team had been lucky to get out the last time. And not all of them had made it. How much of a chance would he have all by himself? So he nodded. "Fine." But he was still worried about her. After what they'd just learned about Ford, true or not... "Are you gonna be okay here tonight? I mean, uh..." he realized what he'd just said, and what it could've been misinterpreted as... "It's okay, Tony, I know what you mean." She sat down on the bed. "Right now, I just want to get some sleep." He nodded. "Sure. I'll see you later." And with a final smile, purely for her benefit, he left. Piccolo decided to head for the gym, to work off the remnants of his fury. It was either that, or go and kill the Macronesian leader himself. And he'd already decided that would be impossible. Two hours later, exhausted from his exertions, Piccolo fell into his bed, asleep before his head hit the pillow. * * * * * Sleep had a definate rejuvenating effect on Henderson. She'd gone to sleep last night, and spent it tortured by memories and nightmares. This morning, she'd woken up almost refreshed, and for the first time in days, with something remotely resembling a clear head. She'd gotten dressed, feeling nearly secure with herself. She was going to meet Deon in half an hour, she told herself, and she wasn't going to have a breakdown when it happened. A knock at the door broke her out of her thoughts. She checked her hair one last time, praying that she'd be able to hold herself together for the morning, and walked across her room to the door, which she opened. "Hi," Piccolo said. He also looked better than he had last night. "How are you? Where are you going?" "I have an appointment," she said. "Remember?" Piccolo looked surprised. "You're goin' ta that?" She nodded, somewhat confused. "Why wouldn't I?" "Well," Piccolo said, trailing off, "After last night..." Immediately, the fire she'd been able to squelch flared again. "What did you think?!? That just because some lunatic says Jonathan is dead, that I'm going to believe him? I'm not that gullible, Tony." She paused, the fire dying. It left an icy block in her stomach. "And I didn't think you were either." Before Tony had a chance to respond, she stormed past him, her good mood having evaporated. * * * * * Ten minutes later, she'd reached the airlock, and she had almost established control of herself again. When she saw Deon, she almost lost it. The _Omni_ burst back into her mind with the speed of...well...a high-speed train. Her eyes fell on the single, long-stemmed red rose he extended to her. "Thank you," she said, covering her disgust with feigned surprise. "Call me Larry," Deon said. He smiled. Henderson repressed a shudder. She hadn't been thinking straight last night, she realized. She should never have accepted Deon's invitation. But for now, she had to play along. "Are you sure that's appropriate?" she asked. His smile grew larger. "Well, how else am I going to be able to call you Lenore?" She didn't know. She didn't care. She didn't say either. "You have a point..._Larry_." "Well, shall we be on our way?" he asked. She nodded, her voice suddenly catching in her throat, due to the rose-- it reminded her of a flower Jonathan had given her once. She missed him so much... * * * * * As Henderson and Deon entered the lobby of his company's front office, they were unaware that they were being watched by an unknown observer. Like many large companies, Deon International had an extensive security department. Also like many other companies, they thought their security was much better than it actually was. Unlike many of those other companies, their CEO of Macronesian affairs wasn't seeing the Chief Advisor to Alexander Bourne. Arkara watched security videos like some people watched horror movies. There was never any way to tell what you'd see, what would come next... It gave her an adreniline rush that couldn't be rivaled by anything. She watched, amused, sipping a diet soda, as Deon's secretary saved his ass when the idiot forgot who his "very impatient client" was. Then, she turned up the volume on her security camera, just in time to hear some very interesting words. "Tell him that I have a _UEO Representitive_ here for a tour of the building...and it's facilities." Then she realized who the representitive was. A slow, malevolent smile spread across her face as she identified the young woman's face with the one that she'd seen a dozen times since assuming her office. Alexander was going to have a fit. * * * * * *Funny how you could become an expert in something in a few days, yet still have little or no idea why it works.* O'Neill stirred yet another liquid, in yet another test tube, over yet another Bunsen burner. In short, he was still doing exactly what he'd been doing for the past ten days. As he felt his glasses slip again, he tried, out of habit, to push them back into place. But same as always, he hit the faceplate of his cleanroom suit's helmet. It was rapidly becoming annoying. "Excuse me, Doctors..." Deon's voice came thundering over the intercom. O'Neill felt himself slip into Atkinson, effortlessly. It was something he'd been doing for the past day or so, whenever anyone else came near him. It seemed the safest thing to do, especially since the rest of the scientists had been acting a bit oddly around him. Only Ayyash was treating him as she had before the dinner, and he didin't exactly want that to be happening. Not that he had any huge complaints against her attentions, as long as she didn't get _too_ attentive. He wondered if he'd done something stupid. Deon continued speaking, without waiting for three scientists and one undercover agent to stop their work. "There's someone here I'd like you to meet." "Larry," Malcom answered, "This isn't a good time. We're right in the middle of a simulation, and--" "Then push the pause button,and get out here," Deon interrupted. "Now." Deon sounded annoyed, a thing that O'Neill knew to be a bad sign. When Deon got annoyed, problems developed. _Quickly_. "He's pompous and arrogant," Deon's voice came over the comm, "But, he's a genius in his field." O'Neill wondered how a man as reportedly brilliant as Deon could forget to turn off an intercom. Malcom turned to the rest of the group, a furious look on his face, which almost immediately smoothed out. "Well," he said sounding exasperated, "Apparently Larry has yet _another_ representitive here to gush over my brilliance." O'Neill noticed that Malcom didn't seem too upset over the "pompous and arrogant" comment. "Steve, stay here and finish." O'Neill nodded as Ayyash and Murphy followed Malcom out. Being left behind was fine by O'Neill. He didn't want to go back into the outside world, where he'd be reminded that his home was so close...yet so far. A wave of homesickness broke over him. The completion of the simulation drew O'Neill out of his reverie. The results were negative. The virus still didn't work. Breathing a sigh of relief, he headed into the airlock. As he went through Decontam, the intercom was nearly drowned out. He could barely make out Deon's voice. "...This is Dr. Chris Malcom, and Dr. Mark Murphy, and Dr. Katrina Ayyash, and... Where's Dr. Atkinson?" "As I _said_," Malcom replied in his most prickly tone, "We were right in the middle of a simulation." Just then, the computer beeped, telling O'Neill that he could leave the airlock. He checked to make sure that Atkinson was still in place, then exited into the antechamber. The official had her back to him. As he removed his helmet, O'Neill wondered why she seemed so familiar. But, he had an act to continue. "Sorry," he said from behind them, "Atkinson. Dr. Steve Atkinson," he introduced himself. The official froze, and slowly turned. The first thing that O'Neill noticed was that she was dead white. The second thing he noticed was who she was. "Lonnie?" he asked, incredulously. He rushed to her, ecstatic to see a familiar face. Her eyes were wide with shock as she nodded. "But," she whispered, "I thought you were dead!" She all but leapt into his arms. As they held each other, O'Neill realized he was close to tears. Then he realized another thing. What if Henderson gave him away? He felt the blood drain from his face. "Play along," he whispered into her ear. "What?" she whispered back. Not answering her, praying that Ford _never_ found out, O'Neill moved slightly, and kissed Henderson on the lips. Despite himself, he lingered there. To his shock, she responded. When they broke apart, O'Neill grinned at her. "It's good to see you again..." *You have no idea _how_ good.* "...But what are you doing here?" Her gaze shifted slightly to Deon. "I'm an official representative of the UEO, taking a tour of Mr. Deon's facilities." "That's what they all say," Malcom muttered. O'Neill shot the scientist a dirty look before turning back to Henderson. He had to figure out some way to tell her what had happened. With him, with Section Seven, and most importantly, Deon and Bourne's "supervirus". But how could he say anything without everyone else catching on? He took a deep breath. Now or never. "Lonnie, I'm sorry. I didn't want to mislead you. But I..." How the _hell_ was he going to tell her that Section Seven was forcing him to pose as a biochemist?!? The only time he or Henderson had ever had any aort of personal contact with Section Seven had been in the form of Captain Bridger, and what had happened on Barrabas Island. "...I didn't have a choice. They made me leave the UEO for a while. I'm working here now. I should be able to come home in _seven_ months or so." *Come on Lonnie, read my mind!* He knew he already sounded insane, and much more babbling would convince Deon that something fishy was going on. But there had to be _some_ way. He and Lucas were both here, and the last other member of the crew he'd seen had been Ford "Tell...Jonathan..." he wasn't used to calling Ford by his first name, and it sounded odd now. "Tell him that Hilo wasn't as interesting as I'd thought it would be." Henderson was looking over him as though she thought he might be as insane as he thought he was. "About Jonathan--" Deon suddenly cleared his throat, and made a show of looking at his watch. "Well, we must be going. My car is waiting." "Is that the one with the--" Malcom began. "No," Deon cut him off, "It's not. But really, the four of you should get back to that simulation. Our client is becoming impatient, and you know what will happen if we keep him waiting too long..." Deon let the sentence trail off. "Heads will roll," Malcom said, answering the rhetorical question. "Literally," Murphy quipped under his breath. Henderson smiled. "It was a pleasure meeting you," she said to the trio of scientists. Then she turned to O'Neill. "And it was wonderful seeing _you_ again. _Steve_." She gave O'Neill a quick peck on the cheek, and left. O'Neill didn't want her to go. As he turned, he saw that the others were staring at him. *Great,* he thought. *I screwed up _again_.* "We have a...history," he explained. "Uh-_huh_," Malcom said. He turned to the others. "Let's get back to work." O'Neill followed them in, glad to be distracted from his thoughts of home. He was crouched down, under cover during a firefight. As he dove through the airlock, the Captain started yelling to close the hatch. Hudson and Lonnie were struggling to get to the cockpit where O'Neill was waiting with the Spindrifter. Lieutenant Brody was weighing them down. "Piccolo! Take care of him!" Hudson left Piccolo to hold Brody as he ran by, dragging Lonnie with him. "Hey, Lieutenant...you're gonna be fine..." As Piccolo eased Brody to the deck, he saw the wound. "Whoa." The syllable didn't express exactly how he felt, but it came close enough. From the size and depth of the wound, he knew that it was a miracle that Brody was alive, much less conscious. Not quite sure of what to do, Piccolo pressed his hands over the hole, as hard as he could. He had heard somewhere that that's what you had to do-- to stop the bleeding. It didn't help. Brody was bleeding to death, and there was nothing Piccolo could do but watch. His hand slipped, and he could feel Brody's heart pounding feebly under it. Blood began to seep through the cracks between his fingers. "Tony..." Brody was so weak that his voice was barely even a whisper. "I need a favor." What does he want me to do? I don't know anything about medicine... He wasn't going to say that, however. "Sure buddy...anything." He leaned closer as the noise began to increase. The Macronesians were on their tail. "It's-- it's Lonnie." Brody was caught in a coughing fit for several seconds, and Piccolo's heart began to beat faster. This couldn't be the end. Not yet. "She's gonna blame herself for this..." Piccolo sighed in relief as he realized that his friend was going to live, at least a little longer. "You've got to tell her... I had to do it... You and Tim were too far away... I had to save her... I love her." It was the last thing Piccolo had expected for Brody to say, and he didn't try to hide his surprise. Brody must have seen his discomfort, because he tried to laugh it away. He wound up making a strangled choking noise instead. "I never told her. At first I wasn't sure... I thought it was a crush... But when I realized what it really was...she and Jon were already involved... I couldn't hurt them like that." Brody's voice dissolved into another fit of coughing. Piccolo didn't know what to say. Brody was pouring his heart out-- both literally and figuratively-- and Piccolo was the only cup in sight to hold it. He had never been good at serious situations. He had to lighten the mood. "So, any other deep, dark secrets you'd like to confess?" To his surprise and dismay, Brody nodded, grimacing at the pain that even that slight motion caused. "Plenty--" He stopped and gasped for air as the shuttle stopped with a jerk. "Lieutenant..." Hudson was kneeling on Brody's other side. Piccolo felt relieved by the knowledge that he wasn't the only one there, and guilty that he was relieved. "We've arrived back on _seaQuest_. There's a medteam waiting. They'll take you and Henderson to the Medbay." Piccolo was swept aside in the bustle that followed Hudson's statement, and Brody tried to talk to him as he was taken away. "I'll see you soon." Lonnie was following him out. Piccolo wanted to believe his friend. He wanted to believe it so much that he didn't say good-bye. That was what would hurt the most. He was walking out of the shuttle bay, and someone was in his path. He didn't have time to deal with that. "'Scuse me." He was distracted, and he didn't pay attention to the person as he shoved by. "There isn't any excuse for what you did! You could have saved him!" Piccolo was already ten or twenty feet away when the voice rang out behind him. He stopped. He didn't know it, yet it was familiar. Then it clicked. _Her_. The mother of Brody's son. He didn't know her name, yet here she was. Aboard _seaQuest_... But how could that be? Then he saw that he wasn't on _seaQuest_. Both of them were standing in a cemetery. Next to a grave. A fresh grave. Piccolo's eyes darted across the tombstone. _His_ grave. He didn't know how to deal with this new twist on the old nightmare. He looked up at Her, eyes wide, as he tried to think of something to say. But there was nothing that made sense. "You were there! You could have killed the one who shot Jim!" Her eyes were wild, like a caged beast. "But no-- you had to concentrate your fire on the one closest to you, didn't you!" How could she know that? She hadn't been there. "You couldn't have taken out the soldier on the other side of the corridor, could you?" As she paused, Piccolo managed to break the spell that she had cast over him with her rage. He opened his mouth to speak, and was surprised to discover that he was crying. "I tried! I tried to stop the bleedin'! But the shot-- it musta hit somethin' important, 'cause I couldn't do anythin'! I--" He stopped. From the look in this woman's eyes, nothing he could ever say would be enough. "But what about the shot he took? Even if you couldn't hit the other soldiers, you could have taken that shot!" "He was-- he was so much closer..." Not by much. "I wouldn'ta gotten to `em in time!" I would have. She could read his thoughts. "You could have made it, and you knew it! But you didn't even try! You were too damn scared! If you hadn't been so selfish, he would've gotten to the shuttle. He could have come home and been able to help raise his son! But you were a coward-- you, who has no responsibilities to anyone but yourself-- you lived while he died! It should have been you! It should have been _you_!" She launched herself at him, hands outstretched. He tried to avoid her, but tripped and fell on the grave. She was on him in seconds-- fighting, clawing, trying anything to get her revenge... ...And Piccolo woke up, sick and shaking in terror. He had barely a moment to compose himself before the doors burst open and Henderson rushed into the room. He was so disoriented that he didn't realize the possible implications of what she was doing. "Tony wake up! You've gotta hear this!" "Believe me," he said shakily, "I'm up." He ordered himself to get it together. Henderson seemed to notice that something wasn't right. "Is something wrong?" she asked. "Yeah, I--" he started, but she cut him off. "That's too bad, but he's not dead!" *What?!? But I saw... At least I thought I...* Piccolo didn't even dare to hope. "It was just a nightmare? Brody's okay?" The way her eyes narrowed told him that he'd said something wrong. "What?" "My dream. Didn't he get shot?" Piccolo could still hear the gunfire, and the lieutenant's hot blood as it covered his hands. He half-expected to look down and find scarlet stains on his palms... Henderson looked even more baffled. "Yes. Captain Hudson found his body in his quarters." It was too much. Piccolo lost it. He was practically incoherent as he spilled the story of his nightmare. "But we were in Macronesia saving you and he got shot and we escaped on the shuttle and he said he loves you and we got back to _seaQuest_ and you and he went to the Medbay and they said he died and then the lady in the message came and she said it was my fault and that I could've taken the shot and he'd be alive today and be able to raise their son and then she tried to strangle me and I tripped over his grave and fell and she was on me and then I woke up and you said it was all a dream and he was alive and everything's going to be okay. Right?" As his brain caught up to his mouth, Piccolo realized just how insane he sounded. *You know,* Piccolo recalled, *Brody doesn't even have a grave. We buried him at sea.* Then Piccolo remembered that he'd let Brody's secret slip out. He hoped Henderson hadn't noticed. "Tony..." Henderson sounded both concerned and confused. "...Would you like to go to the medbay?" A wave of despair annihilated the last sparks of hope. "He's dead?" "No," she said, brightening immediately, "Tim's alive!" Piccolo blinked in surprise and confusion. "Tim? Say what?" Everything was going to quickly for any of it to register. He could only hope that the fog that envceloped his brain would start to clear as Henderson continued her explanation. "I saw him at Deon International's research lab. He's working under an assumed name-- Steven Atkinson-- and he's a _doctor_." Little of what Henderson said penetrated Piccolo's clouded mind immediately. "Tim's okay?" Henderson nodded. "Mm-hm. And I think he was trying to tell me something. But I don't know what." Only barely able to connect what she was saying into coherent phrases, Piccolo nodded. The only thing that was preventing Arkara from screaming was that she had an "appointment" with Torville later that evening. Given the nature of most of their dinner dates, she could up with Bourne and his sickening attentions for a few hours more. All she had to do was keep an empty-headed expression pasted on her face, and leave as soon as the opportunity to do so presented itself. But for now... Bourne's rich, deep voice-- about as soothing as nails on a chalkboard-- droned on until a short, high-pitched beep sounded. He stopped and looked at the offending intercom for several seconds, then gave an exasperated sigh-- Arkara knew that it was for her benefit-- and leaned forward, activating it. "Yes?" Arkara recognized the voice of his secretary. "Mr. Schwartz is here to see you." *Perfect.* Arkara fought the urge to let her head fall into her hands. Schwartz would distract Bourne for _hours_. And she'd have to sit and listen to their witless prattle. *Just perfect.* "Send him in," said Bourne, not noticing her irritation. He switched off the intercom and leaned back, his gaze redirecting itself to the doorway. Arkara let her own follow it, taking her cue from Bourne's barely neutral expression. She was surprised that he wasn't more upset at the interruption. She knew that he disliked Schwartz almost as much as she did. After a moment or so, the door opened and Schwartz walked in. Bourne's stare was a disapproving one. "What, Nicholas?" Now, Arkara could tell that he _was_ annoyed. She didn't blame him. Under the combined glares of both of them, Schwartz seemed to grow cautious. "Mr. President," he said, obviously picking every word carefully, "I have some disturbing news." The last thing Arkara needed now was disturbing news. She was already mentally planning out how to cancel dinner without hurting Dean's feelings. She was surprised that she cared. *Careful, Sydney,* she told herself disapprovingly, *or you'll have to un-attach yourself from him sooner than you'd planned.* Unfortunately, Bourne's disinterest faded rapidly. He nodded, looking almost intrigued. "Go on." Arkara knew that she should have tried harder to keep Bourne's attention. Maybe she hadn't been trying hard enough to keep his rather limited mind occupied. Or maybe, she thought, he was getting tired of her. She knew that he switched partners frequently-- she'd hoped to keep his interest for long enough to get the support of a few key generals. But with Stassi dead... One of these days, she'd kill Schwartz for ordering his execution. Armand had been one of the only military leaders who she'd felt she could trust. She'd warned him not to get too ambitious. But no. He'd had to go and become a high-ranking section coordinator-- put himself in a position where he was vulnerable to a phenomenon he'd always managed to avoid: becoming a scapegoat. And, of course, when that UEO strike team had invaded Barrabas, and had succeeded in making it off alive, he'd been blamed. True, he'd managed to drag the CO of the station down with him, but she'd lost the support of half a dozen others. Oh well. She'd have her revenge on them-- just as she'd have it on Bourne and Schwartz-- when she took over. She was so deeply immersed in her thoughts that she almost missed Schwartz's claims of an infiltrator among the scientists-- a piece of information he had supposedly received from some sort of "contact." "You `contact'?" she asked, her emphasis on the word making it sound appropriately ridiculous. She didn't care if he was right or not. If she was going to have to cancel her date, she would be sure to make the incompetant fool suffer just that much more. She rolled her eyes. "Please, Nicholas. Don't be melodramatic." Schwartz returned her disdainful glare, and Bourne's chiding stare forced her to realize just how childishly she was conducting herself. Not that she particularly cared. She shot a glare at Schwartz that would have sent any half-brained idiot into hiding, and he shot it right back before shifting a far more respectful gaze to Bourne. "Sydney," he said, keeping his eyes off her, "I don't have time for your immaturity." The condescension in his voice made her want to kill him on the spot. She also turned her energies to Bourne, smiling politely. Too politely to be natural, she knew. Bourne had to know it too. "Then get on with it," she said. "_We_," meaning Bourne and herself, "have _work_ to do." And she still had to go back to her apartment, have a shower, get dressed, and do her hair-- all before eight-- if she wanted to have any hope of seeing Dean alone for next few days. Schwartz was too stupid to realize that he was being insulted. He smirked triumphantly, as though she had lost some sort of argument. "One of the scientists," he began, pausing in some inane attempt at drama, "is a _UEO spy_." The initial shock that she felt at his statement was followed by a rush of sudden fear. She'd assured Bourne that the scientists were clean. If she was wrong... Best to put this theory out of Schwartz's head before it took root in Alexander's oh-so-tiny brain. "I _seriously_ doubt that." Her voice betrayed none of the sudden insecurity that was quickening her pulse and making her hands tremble. "I have _evidence_," Schwartz said, as though that mattered to _her_. She wondered for a few seconds if it were possible. No, she told herself to calm the fear of failure, that was absurd. Her network of spies and sources was a thousand times more efficient than Schwartz's. There was no way that he would-- that he _could_ know _anything_ before she did. "Evidence?" She barely cut herself off before her voice failed her. And it had been tighter than normal. The way that Bourne's eyes narrowed in suspicion told her that she should have kept her mouth shut. But she couldn't just let Schwartz waltz in here like this and destroy everything she'd worked for, could she? She tried to force herself to look more relaxed. "Well, in _that_ case..." Her condescension would have to be at _least_ equal to Schwartz's. Bourne would _have_ to agree with her, or risk looking like a fool when Schwartz's theory turned out to be fluff. *It had _better_ be fluff!* It was obvious that this was one point at which none of her usual methods of convincing him to side with her would work. "No, Sydney," he said, and she knew that she was being brushed off, "I think I'll listen to him...if only for the entertainment value." She knew damned well that Bourne wasn't listening to Schwartz for any sort of entertainment. But no matter what else he was-- or wasn't-- Bourne was a politician at heart. This way, he could listen to Schwartz without committing himself to either side of the argument. If Schwartz was wrong, as he'd better be if Arkara had any hope of salvaging her position, Bourne would laugh it off and all Arkara would need to worry about would be getting home with enough time to get ready yo see Dean. If Schwartz was _right_... She put the thought out of her head. Schwartz had never been right. _Never_. There was no reason for him to suddenly change. *At least,* she told herself, *there had better not be.* TO BE CONTINUED... Copyright 1996 Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie =========================== PART 17 ===================================== Disclaimer: The following story belongs to Rachel Brody and Melissa Beattie. Duplication is _strictly prohibited_ without their permission. For the sake of sanity, please refrain from posting or sending this to others without their permission. Send Questions, comments, and constructive critiscism to: bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Introduction: This story takes place after "Weapons of War". The story is set up, to some degree, in "Fusion", "Kaos Theory", and "Cost of Living", which are also by Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie. "Necessary Evils" (part III) By Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Part 17 of 24 Chapter 17: O'Neill had fallen asleep still thinking about Henderson's appearance at Deon's Macronesian Headquarters. His sleep was deep, dreamless, and cut short by footsteps entering his quarters. Someone started to shake him. O'Neill opened his eyes. *Not again,* he groaned inwardly as he saw the eyes staring back at him. "Dr. Ayyash, I thought we had a deal..." They had agreed on a hands-off policy until the project, hadn't they? "Men." Ayyash rolled her eyes, seemingly disgusted. O'Neill felt confused. Was _this_ the same woman who'd been hanging all over him for the past ten days? "Doctor, I think you should leave." She ignored him, going over to his closet and rummaging through his clothes, eventually selecting a tight black outfit. O'Neill was even more confused. He had no idea why she was picking out his clothes for him. No one had done that since his mother, when he was five! "Put that on," Ayyash ordered, tossing the shirt and pants onto the bed. "What?" O'Neill hadn't been so off-balance since... *No,* he confirmed as he glanced at the calendar. *You haven't been in stasis again.* "Get dressed." *Shouldn't she be telling me to get _un_dressed?* "I'm afraid I don't quite--" He cut himself off as she flashed a badge in his face. It effectively answered all of his questions. "You're from Section Seven?" "Is that such a shock?" Ayyash indicated the clothes, still lying on the bed. "Now, get dressed." Numbly, O'Neill took the clothes and started toward the bathroom. "By the way," her voice stopped him. "Very clever of you to keep resisting my advances. It's so hard to keep the focus professional when the male gets wrapped up in his hormones." "Excuse me?" So much for knowing what was going on. She sighed in exasperation. "Thanks for not going to bed with me. It was a much more convincing relationship that way." "But-- How did you know I--" O'Neill was so baffled that he couldn't form a full sentence. "Good Lord! Just get dressed and let's go. We have the data that we were assigned to get--" "Data?" O'Neill realized that he was going to need a scorecard to keep everything straight. "What data?" "Oh, I forgot. You didn't get the same orders as I did." O'Neill could only stare blankly. After a moment, Ayyash continued, the disdain clear in her voice. "I'm your backup agent. I probably have one somewhere that I'm not aware of, ready to step in and help me out, should I prove to be as..." she trailed off, seemingly searching for a word. "As...inadequate...as you've been. Not that such a thing would ever happen, of course." O'Neill blinked in injured pride and astonishment. "So.. you _weren't_ madly in love with me?" He just couldn't get past that. A slow smile crept across Ayyash's face. "Of course not. I mean, look at yourself." _That_ comment stung. Not so much that she didn't really love him, but that she sounded like she thought it an impossibility that _anyone_ could. *The story of my life.* "I suppose I shouldn't have led you on like that," Ayyash admitted. O'Neill couldn't help but agree. "But for the good of the mission...just obeying orders...remember the Alamo..." She shrugged. "You know the spiel." O'Neill still couldn't force himself to move. Information overload. "What are you waiting for?" Ayyash had apparently had enough. "Get dressed!" O'Neill turned and headed to the bathroom. But first, there was one thing he had to know. He stopped and turned back to the other ersatz doctor. "If you don't mind my asking...why --" "The act?" He nodded. "Think about it. Would you expect an undercover agent to act that way? "I guess not," O'Neill conceded. He finally entered the bathroom. Just before he closed the door, he heard Ayyash muttering to herself. "Well, why the hell not? It worked, didn't it?" *She's got a point,* O'Neill thought as he closed the door. *It certainly convinced me.* O'Neill's mind was spinning as he dressed in the bathroom. Dr. Ayyash-- a secret agent? He couldn't believe it. As for her not being in love with him, well...that was a running theme. "And they say _women_ take forever in the bathroom." This from Ayyash, waiting outside the door. It was all O'Neill could to to refrain from yelling that he was going as fast as he could, and he didn't have any more of a desire to be caught than she had, thank you very much. "Very funny, Dr. Ayyash. I still don't know--" She cut him off. "Do you know how _sick_ I am of being called that? Katrina and I have had _quite_ enough of each other, thank you. My name is Lieutenant Commander Kelly Spiner." It didn't right a bell-- not that he'd expected it to. "Should I call you Kelly?" It was an honest question. "You should call me Commander." He should've guessed. And she had accused him of being all business. He was done, so he walked out, nearly colliding with Ayyash. _Spiner,_ he told himself. _Not Ayyash._ "Come on. We'd better rescue our people and get out of here before Bourne, Arkara, or Schwartz has them killed." She started to leave, then stopped. O'Neill hadn't moved, confused. "`Them'? Killed? Who are you talking about?" He knew about Lucas, of course. They'd have to get him from his room. But who else was she talking about? He'd seen Lonnie during her "tour" with Deon, and Hudson had been at the reception, along with Piccolo. That left only... _No_. His worsts fears were confirmed when she answered. "Wolenczak and Ford. Who did you think? You ran into Wolenczak at the reception, remember?" It was a moment before he could speak. "I didn't know that Commander Ford was here!" Why hadn't he been told? "He was Wolenczak's `hostage'. For authenticity. They've been discovered." *Oh God, they've been captured.* All he could think about was what the Macronesians had done to Lonnie. And he was sure that he didn't know the half of it. "Have they been...interrogated?" It was a whisper. He couldn't say it any louder. If he'd tried, it would've come out as a shout. "Probably. All _I_ know is that they're still alive." She shrugged. She actually _shrugged_. "How can you shrug off something like that?!? We were all forced into this!" The image of his friends, writhing in agony, ran through his head, over and over. "Look, Lieutenant, it's their duty to obey orders. If those orders are to be tortured-- even killed..." Duty? How could she think of duty? Lives were at stake! "Do you know what you're saying?" She couldn't. It was impossible to be that cold-blooded. "Do you even care?" His next words came out in a rush. "I can see you people ordering Commander Ford and myself into this, but Lucas... He's practically a child!" "Lieutenant," she said insincerely, "I'm sorry." *Like that's any help.* "But their job was--" He couldn't help it. He cut her off again. "To die? Well, I'm sorry, Commander, but I've already lost one too many friends in Macronesia." Thinking about it still hurt. "And I'll be damned if I lose any more." It was the truth. His waking hours would be hell if Lucas or Ford died. Not to mention the other hours of the day. *No more nightmares, please... No more waking up screaming... Seeing him shot, again and again... Knowing that it's too late...* He wouldn't be able to take it. He'd go insane. He pushed past Spiner and. "I should have told you earlier. It certainly got you moving." Even though the comment was under her breath, he still heard it. He decided not to reply. "Hurry!" He had to save them. He woung dija vu. Again, his hands were manacled in front of him, and again Commander Ford was connected to the neural exciter. Schwartz had taken Bourne's place when the president had been called away, bnto his mind, just like before. "Let me get this straight," Schwartz was saying, in response to Lucas' latest story. He sounded somewhat exasperated. "The aliens programmed you to defect-- to cause chaos-- so that they could invade the planet? That's ludicrous!" *He didn't buy it-- not likt an idea that may change that." As she moved towards the headset/intercom, Lucas wondered fearfully what her next move would be. "Now, once more, Ensign...why are you in Macronesia?" And that was it. Lucas had no more stories to tell. He had it was all he could think of. "Uh...I...um..." Schwartz stuttered as he tried to think of an answer. At first, Lucas was happy that Schwartz had been stumped. But then it occurred to him that perhaps that wasn't the best thing that he could have done. The feeling intensified as Arkara returned to Schwartz's side. "I don't suppose he told you anything." Schwartz shook his head. "Nothing." Arkara sighed and turned the dial. Ford screamed yet again, and Lucas desperately wanted to be able to break down and tell them everything. "Perhaps my next technique will be more effective." As Lucas tried to puzzle out this new threat, the door opened and Murphy entered, syringe in hand. "You wanted a sample, Ms. Advisor?" He sounded so naive that at once, Lucas knew that his old friend didn't know what he had created. Murphy looked towards Ford, then to Lucas, and finally to Schwartz and Arkara. "What's going on?" "That's not your concern." She looked menacingly at Lucas. "We're going to test the virus...on Commander Ford." Even after everything she had done, Lucas couldn't believe that she could be so cold and calculating. She had to know that this would tear him to pieces. "No...you can't!" *But she can...* "Watch me. Dr. Murphy, inject the Commander." For a moment, Lucas was afraid that Murphy would do it. But then he realized that Mark wasn't capable of doing something like that. "What?!? You must be-- I don't even know what it'll do to him!" He didn't know? *How is that possible?* Well, military scientists had worked in the dark for decades. Lucas had always been against that, and Murphy deserved to know what he had helped to create. "Mark, it causes a continuous adrenaline producti--" He was cut off as Schwartz backhanded him. The taste of blood in the corner of his mouth made itself evident. "Inject him. Now!" Arkara had obviously run out of patience. "No." The tone of his voice let everyone know that was his final word on the subject. "Fine. I'll do it. Guards..." She gestured towards Murphy, and the guards converged on him, ripping the syringe from his hand. Arkara took it, and moved closer to Ford, grinning. *How can she be _enjoying_ this?* Lucas thought, as he tried desperately to look away. "I think that it would be..._educational_...for you to watch this." The cool touch of the barrel of Schwartz's gun against Lucas' skull merely emphasized his point. Lucas considered refusing-- maybe then, they'd just kill him and end this torment. *But with my luck, he'd probably miss.* He didn't have a chance to find out, courtesy of a wordless cry of rage that reverberated throughout the room. Before he had a chance to place the voice, a firefight had erupted. The guards were dropping like flies, under the precision fire of...whoever it was that had arrived. Arkara, seeing that something had gone wrong, aimed the syringe like a dart and threw it at Ford. He was barely able to avoid the awkward toss. Schwartz's attention-- and his gun-- wavered as the guards fell. Once the pressure on his temple was gone, Lucas struck out. First, he shoved his elbow into Schwartz's stomach, and as he doubled over in pain and shock, Lucas smashed his cuffed hands into Schwartz's face. Schwartz fell, unconscious, and Lucas assessed the situation. *Where the hell's Arkara?* She was gone. He didn't know how, and he didn't know where...not that he particularly cared. Sparks flew across the room, and he looked up as one of the guards fell from the transformer. It made an impressive light show. All at once it was over, and Lucas was able to see his rescuers for the first time. *Dr. Ayyash? _O'Neill_?!?* In truth, O'Neill's presence wasn't that surprising, but there was something about him that just didn't seem right... "Hold still." He looked up. Ayyash was standing over him, gun pointed at his handcuffs. He held still. Once the handcuffs were off, he stood, rubbing his wrists. God, they were sore. "Commander, are you all right?" Murphy's voice was tight with concern. Ford could only nod in response. He looked exhausted. In the background, Lucas could hear O'Neill destroying the controls. He considered going over to help, but Murphy and Ayyash needed him more. Then he heard the gunshot. He looked up, and saw that it had hit the ceiling support above his head. Another shot came, and the ceiling broke apart. Pieces of debris began to fall. He covered his head with his arms to soften the impacts just as the first piece struck him on the back and knocked him to the floor. He had time for one last thought before the rest of the debris hit. *This isn't fair.* Then the torrent of debris struck, and then-- Oblivion. TO BE CONTINUED... Copyright 1996 Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie =========================== PART 18 ===================================== Guys-- before I start, a few people pointed out an error in chapt 17-- I guess I missed it when I was editing... One of the torture sequences (love those, don'tcha?) appeared 2X. Sorry for the inconvenience. Archivist's Note: I removed these double scene from text. --Andy Disclaimer: The following story belongs to Rachel Brody and Melissa Beattie. Duplication is _strictly prohibited_ without their permission. For the sake of sanity, please refrain from posting or sending this to others without their permission. Send Questions, comments, and constructive critiscism to: bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Introduction: This story takes place after "Weapons of War". The story is set up, to some degree, in "Fusion", "Kaos Theory", and "Cost of Living", which are also by Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie. "Necessary Evils" (part III) By Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Part 18 of 24 Chapter 18: Ford heard the gun fire, and saw where it was aimed. He tried to shout a warning, but the noise was too great-- and he doubted that he would have been able to make his voice work anyway. Now, Lucas was trapped, buried alive. Ayyash and Murphy had gone over to try and exhume his-- *Don't. He may still be alive.* But Ford wouldn't have bet much on it. He turned back to O'Neill, and had to blink to make sure that he was seeing correctly. O'Neill had thrown Schwartz over the control console, and against onto the "interrogation platform". A brief struggle ensued, and O'Neill wound up with both the gun and the upper hand. He had Schwartz pinned against a wall, and an arm across his throat. As Ford watched in shock, O'Neill put the barrel of the gun directly between Schwartz's eyes. Schwartz probably would have screamed for help at this point, except that O'Neill was making it impossible for him to breathe. "So how does it feel, knowing you're about to die?" Ford was the only one close enough to hear the whispered threat, and he was too weak to do anything about it. He was close enough to see the look in O'Neill's eyes, and it chilled him to the bone. Somehow, though, the look was familiar. He tried to place it. "Is your miserable life flashing in front of your eyes? Do you see everyone you've `interrogated'? Everyone you've murdered?" O'Neill was sounding less rational by the second. Finally, the memory clicked. *Hudson.* The look had been in Captain Hudson's eyes. *He had just come up from the shuttle bay. Dr. Perry had contacted him on his walk up to the bridge.* The memory began to replay in his mind like an old movie-- and for once, the images in his head were clear and focused. Hudson's entry onto the bridge... How he'd gone directly to the intercom... *"I regret to inform you..."* The shock Ford had felt at the news of his death... Knowing that someone had died for Lonnie-- and it hadn't been him... How calm Hudson had seemed... All of that had stayed with him. But the image he focused on now was the fleeting one-- the one of Hudson's eyes. The rage, grief, and intense desire for justice that had burned in them. In Hudson, the feelings had seemed controlled, contained. But in O'Neill... The feelings were consuming him, blazing out of control. He remembered all of this in the space of a few heartbeats, even though it seemed like an eternity. "Do you hear their screams, over and over? Does it ever wake you up at night? Seeing them die, again and again? Knowing that it's your fault?" The pain, the agony in O'Neill's voice told Ford all that he needed to know. O'Neill had been there, on the rescue team. Ford only had occasional nightmares, centering on the guilt he felt at not having been there. But it seemed like O'Neill must have had near constant nightmares about what had _really_ happened. "Tim, stop! He didn't kill Jim..." Ford managed only a weak call. He was amazed that O'Neill could hear him, over the crash of metal that Ayyash and Murphy caused as they moved another piece off the pile. The fact that O'Neill answered him was even more astonishing. "Don't you think I know that?" O'Neill's gaze didn't leave Schwartz's terrified face as he spoke. Ford had never heard his voice-- it was so cold. "I was there, remember?" *And I wasn't.* O'Neill continued, not noticing Ford's guilt. "But he just killed Lucas. He deserves to die-- for that, if nothing else." "We don't know that he's dead." It was possible that Lucas had survived, wasn't it? "No, but it's Bourne's fault. All of it! And since he's not here..." The hatred that spread across O'Neill's face left no doubt as to what he was going to do. "..._you'll_ have to do." As Schwartz's terror increased, O'Neill moved the gun, planting it against Schwartz's midsection. His next remark was whispered, so softly that Ford had to strain to hear it. "This one's for you, Jim." Then he pulled the trigger. Schwartz tried to cry out, but O'Neill's arm hadn't moved, and there wasn't enough air for him to do so. All he managed was a weak choke before he slumped to the floor, unconscious. Ford couldn't believe what he had just seen. Someone who he'd always thought of as unemotional and reserved had just murdered a man-- in cold blood. And all he had done was sit and watch. Why? He honestly didn't know...or did he? Schwartz had been his tormentor, had worked for the government who was responsible for the death of one friend, possibly another, and had nearly executed his lover... Maybe he'd just answered his own question. Murphy gave a shout of triumph as he and Ayyash pulled the body-- pulled _Lucas_-- from the debris. "He's alive, but just barely." Ford sighed in relief. *Thank God. The Captain would have killed me.* He was happy that Lucas was alive too, but at the moment, his mind was as thick as pea soup. "Are you sure?" O'Neill sounded so normal that Ford was tempted to think that the bizarre scene he had just witnessed was the product of his own disordered mind. But his eyes drifted back to Schwartz's still body, and he knew that wasn't the truth. "He'll be fine, once we get him to the medbay." Ayyash seemed unfazed by the entire escapade. *I wonder how she'd react if she knew what O'Neill did?* "_seaQuest_ has been granted full Embassy status, so we'll be safe once we get there." Everything seemed so normal, but Ford knew better. He'd seen O'Neill angry before, but... Then an alarm sounded. "That's a proximity detector! Their reinforcements are coming!" Murphy was right. The time for thinking was over. *Shake it off, Commander.* He'd deal with everything later. Assuming there was a later. O'Neill carefully looked around the corner, making sure that there was no one there. Seeing that there wasn't, he waved at the others to come forward. Just as they did, however, a Macronesian patrol rounded the far corner. *Talk about bad timing,* O'Neill thought as the first shots whizzed past him. He tried desperately to warn them, but they seemed not to notice. Murphy was too concerned about Lucas, Spiner was too busy trying to watch their flank, and Ford too busy trying to stay upright to notice. There was only one thing to do. "Commander!" he yelled. "Watch out!" Everyone's head snapped up. Then, everyone tried to head for cover. But no one knew as well as O'Neill how precious little cover there was in a Macronesian corridor. "Fall back!" he called, waving to a side corridor. He saw Spiner head for the indicated hall at full tilt, closely followed by the others. Squeezing off a few shots at the approaching patrol, he joined them. He caught up to them quickly, as Ford and Murphy couldn't move very fast. "Anybody...know...where...we're going?" Murphy gasped out. O'Neill shrugged. "No idea." The particular corridor he'd led them into had precious little in the way of signs. Spiner turned to them. "We're heading towards the airlocks." "How do you know?" O'Neill wondered if, perhaps, he'd missed some sign. After all, he _had_ been through a lot today. *Yeah,* came a taunting voice from inside the back of his mind. It was one that he'd come to know intimately over the past days. *Like committing _cold-blooded_ murder._ *Shut up!* he told himself. *You've got more important things to worry about.* The charge that nearly took his head off jolted him back to reality. Somehow, as he argued with himself, they'd managed to arrive at the endless airlocks. So had the Macronesians. "Come on," Spiner ordered, "This way." And she led them into another corridor. A familiar corridor. A _very_ familiar corridor. The one that haunted him nightly. The one that he'd avoided daily during his stay. The one that Brody had been shot in. *No...* He saw it again. He was in almost the same situation as last time; a rescue mission, under heavy fire, with only one avenue of escape. And he knew what had happened last time... He looked around. He could practically see Jim there, saying what he always said, that _he_ should've been the one to start the pre-launch, that, if not for O'Neill, Brody would be alive today, that it was _all O'Neill's fault..._ *NO!* He couldn't afford to lose it. Not here, not now. He had to keep control. So, as usual, he tried to closet it, to hide it deep down where it couldn't bother him. But, it wouldn't go. He kept seeing it. Why wouldn't it go away? It always had before. He'd even managed to force the nightmares down, for a time. It had never been easy, but, for most of his life, O'Neill has been able to contain his emotions. But not now. The emotions were all intertwined. He couldn't separate them anymore. The anger, the hate, the pain, had meshed with love, happiness, and joy. There was nothing he could do. Everything threatened to take him over, and that would, most likely, drive him insane. So, he did the only thing he could. He restrained everything. Light, dark, and in-between, every emotion that O'Neill posessed was beaten down, and put under tight restraint. It was something that he'd rarely done, only at times like this, when he needed to think clearly. He didn't enjoy it, because the aftermath was always pretty bad. And he'd only done it for a little while, never more than an hour or so, just long enough so that he could find somewhere that he could be alone. But, his emotions had never been this strong before. Nor had there ever been so much of the previously-repressed emotions there. He hoped that it would work. "Lieutenant!" O'Neill turned and saw that the patrol had been taken care of. He blinked. "What--" Spiner rolled her eyes. "Maybe if you paid a little more attention to your surroundings, you'd notice that the patrol isn't a problem now." O'Neill looked around him, and saw that she was correct, the squad lay dead at their feet. He felt a surge of purely evil pleasure at their demise. *There're a few more for you, Jim,* exclaimed the other voice happily. *My God,* O'Neill thought in horror a second later. *What have I done?!?* O'Neill immediately forced those emotions down even further, then tightened his bonds on the rest of them, banishing them even deeper into himself. Spiner seemed oblivious to his struggle. "Come on," Spiner said, pointing towards another corridor "The _seaQuest_ is this way." Mechanically, O'Neill followed, forcing everything but his need for him and his comrades to survive deeper and deeper with every step. Hudson was as tense as a cat on the bridge. Montgomery had let him keep his chair, at least, but she'd maintained command throughout their mission. "Sir," Hanley said, "I'm receiving a hail...for Ms. Montgomery." Montgomery flashed him a grin, as if to say that the hail proved that _she_ was in command. "On screen." "It's audio only, ma'am." "Fine," she said, waving it off, "Just put it through on the headset." Montgomery listened for a moment to her headset. "Yes, it's me. It had better be important," she warned. Another pause, as she listened, and Hudson became more nervous as each second passed. "Are all accounted for?" Montgomery asked. The answer must have been in the affirmative, because her next question was: "What are their conditions?" Montgomery nodded to no one present. "I see. I look forward to your report. Out." She turned to Hanley. "Order a medteam to the airlock." Then she turned to Hudson. "Captain, come with me." she ordered as she started to walk off the bridge. Hudson followed, trying to figure out exactly where she was taking him. "Henderson," Hudson called over his shoulder, "Take over." By the time they had reached the corridor that led to the airlock, Hudson was ready to blow his top. "Will you _please_ tell me what's going on?!?" "Wait a moment," Montgomery said mysteriously. "But--" He was cut off as the medteam Montgomery had ordered arrived. "Sir," Hanley's voice rang out, "They're here." The airlock opened, and Hudson saw a ghost. At least, he thought he did. After all, he'd found O'Neill's body. Yet, there he was, obviously alive. Except for his eyes. O'Neill's eyes were dead. Cold. Totally unemotional, despite the fact that Ford had staggered, exhausted, inside the airlock, and that a young man, one of Deon's scientists, was carrying Lucas in his arms. Hudson's attention was diverted by the sight of the battered ensign. "What happened?" Hudson asked of no one in particular. The woman who'd come in with them, Dr. Ayyash, Hudson remembered, answered him. "Macronesia's late Defense Advisor shot the structural supports of the `interrogation' area. The ceiling collapsed on top of him." "_Late_ Defense Advisor?" Hudson repeated. The woman nodded. "It's a long story. If you'll excuse me..." She moved past him. Hudson noticed that Montgomery had disappeared. He'd deal with that promptly. But first... "Commander," he said to Ford, "It's good to see you." Ford forced a weak smile. "Likewise, sir." "Excuse me," Burke said as she took Ford's arm. "I need to get the commander to the medbay." Hudson nodded, watching as they took Ford and Lucas away. Then he headed to the bridge, to have a _long_ talk with Montgomery. Murphy tried to push past the person who had stepped in his way. If Lucas and Ford were going to be in the Medbay, he wanted to go along too. "Excuse me, please." The person who had blocked his way didn't budge. He looked up, brown eyes flashing in annoyance that soon faded when he saw who it was. "Katrina, get out of my way!" He didn't see that she had snapped a set of handcuffs around his wrists until she flashed her badge. "Section Seven?" He had only a vague idea of the UEO's secret police, but knew that if Katrina was mixed up in them, he was in trouble. "You're under arrest." She sounded so calm, so controlled. As if they hadn't just spent a month and a half working together so closely. He could only stare at her in shock. She gestured to a couple of muscular guards. They approached and grabbed Murphy by each arm. "Professor Murphy, you are under arrest for three violations of the Geneva Convention of 2007, banning any and all Genetic Engineering." She looked at the guards. "Take him to the brig." The guards nodded, but Murphy could sense some sort of underlying resentment directed towards as they escorted him out of the shuttle bay. If she was part of Section Seven, he understand why. Spiner had been looking forward to the end of this mission. Besides the feeling that she received from knowing that she had completed the assignment, there were several personal items that she could take satisfaction in. The first was that she had finally been able to tell O'Neill what she thought of him: namely, that he was a gutless wimp. When he had pulled the trigger on Schwartz, she had felt a glimmer of respect for him; a glimmer that had gone out as soon as she realized that he was sorry for what he'd done. Aside from the fact that Schwartz would have had to die, and he deserved it like all hell, she had admired O'Neill's procedure. He had taken it slowly. Painfully. Savored every second. The fact that it had been in a fit a fit of passion and anger didn't bother her for a second. Nothing bothered her anymore. Except for Murphy. He had annoyed her, constantly, for weeks. Seeing the look on his face as she'd cuffed him had been worth the headaches she'd gotten wondering if either he or Malcom could be just a hop, skip, and a jump away from the truth. Hearing the cuffs lock shut around his wrists, seeing the look of shock that had registered on his face when she'd flashed her card; it had been worth the nerve wracking conversations, the month and a half of teeth grating, everything she'd been put through. That he had actually broken a law, and she hadn't had to invent one to catch him on, was only the icing on the cake . But the crowning glory of her return to UEO waters... She was going to rub her success in Chandler's face. She was out in the field, in the prime of her career. He was holding what could almost be considered a desk job, and he was working under Montgomery. She outranked him, too. A sly smile graced her lips. She'd put him through hell, and then let him down hard. He deserved it. She tried to decide how to get away with it without letting Montgomery catch on. Chandler was rumored to be her pet-- and from what Spiner could remember of the two of them, it would take more than being a good agent for Chandler to be Montgomery's pet. Not that he was any good at what he did. He was too forward, too unreserved, and far too emotionally involved with his work. She had made positive never to make that mistake. And, of course, there was always the question of what to do with herself once she returned. She had a few weeks leave saved up...maybe she'd take a tropical vacation. For now, however, she had a report to make. When Hudson returned to the bridge, the first person he saw was Montgomery. She was getting a report from Ayyash. "Good work," Montgomery said as the scientist finished. "Dismissed." Ayyash nodded and silently left. Hudson moved over to his chair, where Montgomery sat. "I'd like a word with you," he told her. "I'm really quite busy at the moment, Captain," she said, brushing him off. "Perhaps later." Hudson never liked being brushed off, especially on _his_ bridge. "No, Ms. Montgomery, _right now_!" While he didn't want to have it out with her on the bridge, he would if he had to. "Do you realize that two of my officers have been tortured by the Macronesians because of _your_ mission? And," he continued, "That the crew has been traumatized as a result of another officer's supposed death?" Hudson was so furious, that he barely noticed the I-told-you-so glance Henderson shot at Piccolo. "Captain," Montgomery warned, "I'd advise you to stop..." "Not on your life," he informed her. "Are you _also_ aware that Ensign Wolenczak may have been fatally wounded as a result?" Hudson heard Henderson gasp behind him. Piccolo nearly jumped out of his chair. Montgomery shrugged nonchalantly. "Breaks of the game, Captain." *How could she not care?* Hudson wondered. A sudden realization hit him as he thought about it. Henderson seemed to get the same insight. "How could you send a child to his death?" she asked, sounding shocked. "You gave him a `hostage', too, when you knew that _neither_ of them was likely to come back! For what?" Henderson sounded as though, given the chance, she'd kill Montgomery without hesitation. "What happened?" Since Montgomery wasn't likely to respond, Hudson spoke up. "It's a long story--" he began, but Montgomery cut him off. "They were being interrogated, and, after their rescue, the late Defense Advisor shot down the ceiling on top of Ensign Wolenczak." Her tone was so matter-of-fact, that it infuriated Hudson again. As he looked around the bridge, Hudson saw that his fury was mirrored, if not outshone, by the rage blazing in both Henderson's and Piccolo's eyes. Montgomery seemed to sense their anger, and tried a more conciliatory tack. "I'm sorry that your officers were inconvenienced, but--" "_Inconvenienced_?!?" Piccolo repeated, outraged, cutting her off. "They were _tortured_!" "It was a necessary evil," Montgomery informed them. "They were developing a virus--" "That never would've worked," a flat-voiced O'Neill said from the entrance to the bridge. "It was feasible, but Dr. Malcom's methods were all wrong." He paused, staring directly into Montgomery's eyes. "It all happened for nothing." "It wasn't for nothing!" Montgomery was nearly shouting by this point. "The information gathered--" "Could've been gathered by one of your spies that were already in place," O'Neill countered coldly. "Both of you, stop it," Hudson ordered. O'Neill's reaction, or rather, his lack of one, was only getting Montgomery furious. Whether it was intentional or not, Hudson didn't know. "How are Jonathan and Lucas?" Henderson wanted to know. "Commander Ford is exhausted, and has some bad burns, but is expected to make a full recovery. As for Lucas..." O'Neill trailed off, the first sign of emotion he'd exhibited since his arrival. "She doesn't know yet." A wave of sorrow ran through the bridge at O'Neill's words, yet, the swell didn't touch the lieutenant. Or Montgomery, who'd slipped away, unnoticed. "Thank you, Lieutenant," Hudson said. "If you'd like to go to your quarters, you _are_ still officially dead." O'Neill didn't seem to notice Hudson's attempt at humor. "If you don't mind, sir, I'd rather go down to the medbay." *I'm not surprised.* Hudson just nodded. As O'Neill left, Hudson saw that he was intercepted by Piccolo before he got two steps past him. *I wonder how they'll explain that they went through his things?* Hudson wondered. It would be amusing to watch. But that brought to mind the fact Piccolo may have to go through Lucas' things soon. Henderson was standing next to Ford's bed waiting for him to wake up. He was sleeping deeply, a combination of sedatives and his injuries *Sleeping Handsome,* she thought. "Jonathan," she said aloud, "I don't know if you can hear me, exactly, but... I just wanted to say I'm sorry..." Her voice broke, and it was a moment before she could continue. "When I heard that you'd been kidnapped and forced to go to Macronesia, I was in shock. You were _gone_, and I didn't even get a chance to say good-bye. All I wanted to do was," she shook her head, "I don't know...take a Specter and blast my way into the capital and rescue you. But after what happened to Jim..." She trailed off, not wanting to think about that. "But with you gone, and everyone thinking that Tim was dead, and that Lucas defected... I felt like my world had collapsed. I--" She cut herself off, because the words were so difficult. "I _love_ you, Jonathan Devin Ford, and, if you don't wake up soon, I'll-- I'll--" "Smother him with whipped creme?" Henderson whirled and saw that Piccolo had come up behind her. "I came here to see Lucas, but he's still in surgery." "How is he?" she asked hesitantly. "Dr. Perry said the next eight hours would be critical," he informed her. "Tim's staying in the ICU until the surgery's over." He nodded in Ford's direction. "How's the commander?" Henderson shrugged. "Still asleep. Dr. Perry said he'd be out another few hours." She was trying to keep the worry out of her voice, but she knew that she failed miserably. "Maybe a kiss'll break the spell," Piccolo suggested with a sad chuckle. "You know, like in the old fairy tales?" He tried to smile. "I'm gonna go see if Lucas is out yet." "Let me know." He nodded and left her alone with Ford. When she was certain that no one was around, Henderson leaned over and kissed Ford's cheek. "Wake up, Jonathan," she whispered. "I need you." She took his hand in hers as she sat down next to the bed. She was prepared to stay as long as necessary. Even if it took forever. TO BE CONTINUED... Copyright 1996 Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie =========================== PART 19 ===================================== Disclaimer: The following story belongs to Rachel Brody and Melissa Beattie. Duplication is _strictly prohibited_ without their permission. For the sake of sanity, please refrain from posting or sending this to others without their permission. Send Questions, comments, and constructive critiscism to: bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Introduction: This story takes place after "Weapons of War". The story is set up, to some degree, in "Fusion", "Kaos Theory", and "Cost of Living", which are also by Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie. "Revelations" (part IV) By Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Part 19 of 24 ** * * * * * "The first horror is over; after this, there are still two more horrors to come." --Revelations 9:12 ** * * * * * Chapter 19: O'Neill was sitting in the ICU next to Lucas' bed. He was worried because Lucas' vital signs were weak, and getting weaker. So O'Neill stayed and watched. Should it happen, God forbid, Lucas wouldn't die alone. Out of the corner of his eye, O'Neill saw someone come up and stand next to him. "It's a real shame," Spiner said with a sigh. "Tell me about it," O'Neill said quietly. At once, he realized that there was no reason for silence. There was no way that mere noise could awaken the boy. "All the data he'd gathered but didn't transmit..." she shook her head sorrowfully. "Lost." "Data?!?" O'Neill repeated, unable to believe he'd heard correctly. "How can you think of _that_?" There was no response. "He's _dying_!" He wondered how Spiner could be so callous. "Everybody dies, Lieutenant." She sounded as though she thought she was stating the obvious. O'Neill was almost mute with amazement. Eventually, he found his voice. "How can you be so casual?" he asked. She just shrugged. "Don't you care about anyone but yourself?" he pressed. "No," she replied. "I don't." He could only stare. "In my business," she explained, "Your best friend today is your worst enemy tomorrow. The person you make love to one night, you assassinate the next. Caring," she said deliberately, "Is a _liability_." "Then," he asked, gesturing to Lucas' prone body, "Why did you help him?" What she said couldn't have been true. She _had_ to have a heart, somewhere. She shrugged again. "His information, of course," she told him matter-of-factly, "I was hoping he'd be conscious, so that he could report his data before he died." Somehow, O'Neill could tell that she was being totally honest. This _was_ how she truly felt. Or _didn't_ feel. "You didn't care either way," he accused, "Did you?!? If he lives or dies, it's all the same to you, isn't it?!?" O'Neill was yelling, practically screaming by this point, but he didn't care. "All you care about is his information!" Spiner looked at him coolly. "Right on all counts, Lieutenant." Her tone was colder than polar ice, a perfect match for her expression. "I told you, I look out for number one. _Me_." She smiled arrogantly. "That's why I'm so good." *How could _anyone_ be that ruthless? To just go through life, not caring about anyone...* He knew that the loneliness would drive him insane. "You might try it, Lieutenant," Spiner advised. "It would be less painful. After all," she continued, gesturing to Lucas, "Look what caring's got you." Thankfully, she left. *I've tried it before,* he mused, *And I never want to try it again... If I hadn't just stoood there, looking over Lonnie's shoulder...* *...Jim might've come back.* That fact alone was enough to sour him on the idea. * * * * * The images came at Ford faster than he could deal with them. He knew he was merely sedated onboard _seaQuest_, yet he felt trapped in a nether region of shadow and light. And, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't escape the memories. He kept seeing recent events over and over, like a twisted slideshow. In slow motion, he saw the ceiling fall on top of Lucas, burying him. He saw Murphy and Ayyash, or Spiner, or whoever she was, trying to pull him out, because Ford himself was too weak to do anything but watch, slumped against a wall. And, worse than even those, was being forced to see the crazed look in O'Neill's eyes as he held the gun between Schwartz's eyes, then later, to his stomach. In that moment, Ford had been more afraid of his friend, than of his worst enemies. In truth, he still was. He didn't understand. He didn't want to. Some things are just too horrible to contemplate. Insanity, temporary or otherwise, was definitely one of them. "Jonathan?" *Great, now _I'm_ hearing voices...* A familiar voice. A _very_ familiar voice. The same voice that had greeted him on many a morning. Henderson's voice. "Jonathan, are you okay?" She seemed to be a fair distance away, but he tried to find her anyway. She seemed to be coming from the light. After a few eternities, he fought his way through the clinging shadows, and saw her, wreathed in pure white brilliance. *The medbay lights?* he thought in confusion, as he forced himself to sit up. She smiled at him gently. "Good morning, Commander." Commander? Were they back to that? "Hi," he managed to croak out. His throat was as dry as Death Valley during Indian summer. After he coughed a few dozen times, he found he could speak. "Is everyone okay?" Henderson looked away, unable to meet his eyes. "Yes..." The way she let it hang told Ford that she was lying. She sighed. "No." After a moment, she forced the rest out. "Lucas is... dying." Ford closed his eyes in pain for a moment, then forced them open, as he saw the ceiling fall again. "Damn," was all he could think of to say. "Yeah," she agreed. They sat there, staring into each other's eyes, sharing their pain, and trying desperately to find reassurance, somewhere. The only natural thing to do for him to pull her close and kiss her. She seemed to agree. * * * * * From the shadows, Piccolo watched Ford comforting Henderson, holding her as he'd done before. He felt a pang of jealousy. *See what you get for being moral?* He sighed and tiptoed out of the room. * * * * * Ford was almost feeling his old self. If not for the occasional aches and Lucas' deteriorating condition, he would have been tempted to forget that the whole ordeal had really happened. With one notable exception. Ford walked into the almost deserted ICU and found who he was looking for. "Is there something I can do for you?" O'Neill's voice was flat, and his eyes didn't leave Lucas' body. "O'Neill..." How could Ford say this without coming right out and _saying_ it? "Why?" "Why? Why what?" "Schwartz." Ford tried to say more, and this time suceeded. "Why-- no, _how_ could you do that? Murder him in cold blood?" He had to repress a shudder. "_Cold Blood_?!?" The sheer volume of O'Neill's voice was enough to make Ford shrink back. O'Neill had exploded, going from bleak to outraged in less than a second. "He _shot the ceiling_ down on _Lucas_! He was part of the government that nearly _executed_ Lonnie! Who killed--" O'Neill choked off and looked away. Whether in fury or tears, Ford couldn't tell. "Who killed Jim, right? That's who you said you did it for." Ford knew he was on shaky ground. O'Neill looked ready to either explode again...or crack. His voice was low and dangerous when he responded. "He was responsible. He had to pay. We _all_ have to pay for our mistakes." "Like you did?" It was a long shot, but the way O'Neill had sounded before he pulled the trigger... "With the nightmares?" Captain Hudson had said that everyone had performed flawlessly. Still... "I didn't do anything!" It was almost a sob as O'Neill stood and walked around the bed. "I stood there and _watched_ while Hudson and Lonnie took him into the shuttle, while the Spindrifter started the engines, while the Macronesians tailed us here--" He was almost incoherent, and only a few inches from Ford's face. He had to say something to calm his friend down. "Look, Tim, I've had nightmares too, but--" O'Neill grabbed him by the collar. It was the single most aggressive action that he had ever taken towards Ford, and it shocked the hell out of him. "_You've_ had nightmares? _You_?!? _You_ weren't there! _You_ didn't see the blood pouring from the hole in his chest! _You_ didn't have to watch Death grinning as he hovered over Jim's body! _You_ weren't the one who was so busy _watching someone pilot the damned ship_ that you weren't able to say good-bye! _You_ aren't the one who hasn't been able to sleep a whole night through without waking up, screaming and crying! _You_ aren't--" All at once, his knees buckled and his grip on Ford loosened. Ford reached out to lend his friend support, but O'Neill broke off and did something that Ford had never seen him do before. O'Neill cried. No, _sobbed_, uncontrollably, like a child. Ford didn't know what to do, other than to be grateful that the only other witness to the scene was Lucas, and he was unconscious. So he let his friend cry. After several minutes, he eased O'Neill into a chair, at which point he fell into a deep, exhausted sleep. Ford rearranged O'Neill's limbs in the chair so that they wouldn't cramp, and covered his friend with a spare blanket. "Sleep well, Tim. You've earned it." Ford tiptoed out of the ICU to get some well-earned sleep of his own. * * * * * First there was oblivion. Then, after a long period of darkness, there was something else... ...Somewhere above him, there was a bright light shining. As his gaze shifted to the ground, he realized that he was sitting. He let his fingers dig into the earth beneath him-- light, granular material that quickly slipped through his fingers. *Sand. * * * * * He was on a beach. He could hear the water lapping against the shore. The salty-sweet scent of the ocean water invaded his nostrils. *Where am I?* He couldn't identify the area by the coastline, which was odd, considering that he had spent years studying them. He couldn't recall how he had arrived, only the crushing pressure of the metal fragments that had rained down on him, the sharp pain of the impact against his chest. As it had faded to a dull ache, he had felt a sharp crack against the back of his head... ...and then he had woken here, by the ocean. One of his hands left the smooth coolness of the sand and reached towards the base of his neck, where his fingers gently probed beneath his hair, searching for a laceration, a bruise, a bump, anything. But there was nothing there. "Not exactly," someone said from behind him. The voice was a familiar one. Someone he had known before, in a different time. *A different life...* The voice was powerful and commanding, with undercurrents of warmth. It was a voice he hadn't heard in months. He had missed it terribly, but hadn't realized that until now. "It's been a while. It's really great here, but sometimes I just get so lonely..." The sorrow and longing in the voice was clear, so incredibly clear... Lucas knew that he could remember who it was if he tried hard enough. "Don't tell me you've forgotten already." An image began to form in Lucas' mind...the image of someone who he had known only a year and a half before the unthinkable had happened. "It's not _that_ unthinkable. It happens every day. And that's what we need to talk about." Lucas slowly stood, leaving the cool sand on the ground...there wasn't even an impression left where he had been sitting. As he slowly turned around, his back now to his beloved oceans, he saw the living form of an old friend... *Not living.* The figure half-grinned, hazel eyes twinkling, and Lucas couldn't tear his eyes away. His mouth opened, lips forming silently spoken words that reverberated noiselessly through his soul. *Lieutenant Brody.* The change in Brody's demeanor was more than evident. He had never been this calm-- this collected-- in life. "If it'll make you more comfortable, I could play the harp." He shrugged as though it didn't really matter to him what Lucas thought. Brody walked past Lucas, spent a fraction of a second staring into the cresting waves, then he slowly sank to the ground, sitting there as though he expected Lucas to join him. Lucas did. The amount of time they spent looking out on the blue-green sea seemed endless. In all truth, it had no real meaning. *We have all of eternity...* As soon as the thought formed, Brody shook his head. "Only if you decide to stay." "If I decide to stay?" It took more concentration that Lucas thought he could focus, but he managed to force out the words. Brody's gaze shifted back to the water as he replied. "Your body is lying back on _seaQuest_. In the medbay. You're unconscious, and they're worried." Brody concentrated, then looked mildly amused. "Tim, Jon, everybody." Lucas was floored by a sudden realization. "I'm dead." "No." But Lucas couldn't accept Brody's word for it. Everything added up. "I'm really, truly, dead. Oh my--" He cut himself off. He wasn't sure if you could say "oh my God" when you were dead. It was probably like an invitation to go...the other way. A touch of the brash humor that Lucas remembered so well crept back into Brody's voice as he shook his head. "You're in the Transition...a sort of threshold between life and--" "Death?" "Sheesh, you're eager to get to that part of it, aren't you." The homor left his voice as he finaly gave in and nodded. "If that's what you want to think of it as, sure." Lucas wanted to know so much. He had so many questions, and only one person of which to ask them. He decided that the first thing he had to know was how he had gotten here. So he asked. Brody contemplated his response for several seconds, and only after a short pause began to explain. But by the time he finished, Lucas would be even more confused than he already was. "They never really told me what to expect...I mean, I was ready to assist someone over, but I didn't know who it would be." The wind picked up, bringing with it a faint chill. Brody looked up at the breeze with alarm. "You don't have much time left." "Time?" Lucas had thought that time had no meaning in death. "It doesn't." Brody's eyes and Lucas' connected abruptly, and Lucas noticed that there was something missing from his friend's expression. "But this isn't death." His expression changed, becoming more serious. "Believe me, you'll know when _that_ happens. "How?" "Well, I can't tell you exactly how it'll be for you, since I died while I was still conscious..." Lucas could see the pain in Brody's face as he recalled what had happened on that day, almost three months ago. Brody quickly wiped the pained expression from his face. "You, on the other hand, are one of the lucky ones. You have a choice." "A choice?" *Talk about your life and death decisions.* A thin chuckle escaped Brody's lips. "You're important to a lot of people. You're being given a choice. Do you think you're ready to die?" That was the first time that Brody had actually asked him the question directly. Before Lucas could shake his head and go back, he continued. "Your first answer is the only one that counts, so think carefully." *What could possibly make anyone _want_ to die?* "Don't take your choice lightly," Brody told him. "There are a lot of things about life that I know you don't like...and even if you decide to live now, I can't guarantee that you won't die in an hour, or a day, or a week. And next time, it could be a lot more painful." He shut his eyes, as though remembering the circumstances surrounding his own grisly death. "How did you choose?" As long as he had someone acting as a guide here, Lucas figured that he should take advantage of it. And he had always respected Brody's opinion, anyway. "I didn't." Brody's eyes took on a newer, far away look as he continued staring into the water...almost as though he could see what was going on beneath it. Then again, perhaps there really wasn't anything going on beneath the glassy, rolling waves. For the first time, Lucas realized how quiet and lonely it was here. There weren't any birds singing, no mosquitos biting him, no children playing or people laughing. "I thought you said--" "Some of us have the choice. I wasn't one of them. The shot I took for Lonnie and the Captain was what sealed the bargain." Lucas looked on, confused. "Bargain?" "I gave up my life so that they could live." Lucas didn't understand how that was possible. As a little kid, he had seen the standard "deal-with-the-devil" horror movies...scary stories...he could still remember staying up late, snuggled under the covers of his bed with a flashlight, eyes wide as he waited for midnight when the monsters and demons to come out. He had been the type of kid that couldn't go out on Halloween without two parents and a dog-- preferably a large, vicious one that would attack and/or kill anything that tried to scare him. Countless times, he had woken up from bad dreams and gone running for his parents' bedroom. "Why?" Brody shrugged. "It was a spur-of-the-minute thing. But even if I had taken more time to think, I probably still would have done it. But by then, they both would have been dead." Lucas had never taken the time to ask anyone from the rescue team what had happened. He had never wanted to know, never thought it was anything more than a morbid curiosity when he had hacked into the logs and read the first few words of Hudson's letter to Brody's grandparents...*"I regret to inform you of the death of your grandson, Lieutenant James Brody"...* he had stopped when he realized what he was doing. This was his opportunity to learn how his friend had died. "We were running for the shuttle, and the Macronesians were following us. Hudson was going to take Lonnie through the airlock. They had set up some kind of energy cannon. When that Macronesian boy got shot, she wouldn't go." Lucas knew that if he looked closer, he would be able to see something new in Brody's eyes as he talked about the experience. He didn't look closer. "It was either me or both of them...I did the math, and jumped." "What was it like?" Brody shook his head. "Horrible. When that charge ripped through my chest...it was pure agony. Once we were on the shuttle, I looked up at Tony, and all I could think was that it was the end. For a minute or two, I thought I was going to explode from the sheer unfairness of it all. Captain Hudson tried so hard not to let me go on that shuttle, and for a while he was fighting a winning battle." Lucas was blissfully glad that he hadn't suffered like that. "After we got to _seaQuest_, I so was shocked. I mean, I couldn't believe that I was still alive. The hole in my chest didn't even matter for a few seconds towards the end. It was like, `Wow: I'm gonna to make it.' Then I heard Lonnie crying, and I had to say something to make her stop...but I couldn't think of anything. I only barely got to tell her that I didn't want her to blame herself. And I don't even know if she understood." He grinned momentarily, as though recalling a fond memory. "It was my decision to jump out like that, and I haven't regretted it since...except that I never got the chance to tell her how much I " As though he regretted telling Lucas anything, Brody abruptly cut himself off, leaving Lucas in a lurch. The corners of his eyes were damp, and sparkling with wet tears. The person who Lucas had always seen as unshakable...was crying. Lucas couldn't think of anything to say. There was nothing _to_ say. He still didn't know why this decision was so hard for him to make. As another gust of wind blew a lock of hair into his face, something twisted deep inside his chest. It felt as though someone was running him through with a knife. His face contorted with agony as his arms wrapped themselves tightly around his stomach. Tears began to form in the corners of his eyes as he squeezed them shut, hoping that he could shut out the pain along with the eerie, shifting light of the beach. Brody scrambled to his feet, and helped Lucas lie back on the sand. "It's okay...you're going to be okay...hold on a minute or two..." Slowly, ever so slowly, the sting began to fade, until Lucas could force himself to speak again. "What the hell?" "You're in a coma...you're dying." Brody looked as though this was difficult for him to say. "After Schwartz shot down the ceiling, you were buried in the debris." Lucas could recall the crumbling shards falling, and he could still hear the gunshots pounding in his ears... "Tim lost it." *Lost what?* For a few seconds, Lucas was sure that he was hallucinating. "He killed Schwartz." The news hit Lucas like a freight train. Tim had done _what_? "He's been unstable ever since I died. They all blame themselves." Lucas knew that. He knew that Tony'd had nightmares, and had been able to guess that the same was true of Lonnie and Tim. He had been haunted by them himself for several weeks before coming to terms with what had happened. He realized that he wasn't sure that he wanted to go back to that kind of pain. He rolled over on one side, drawing himself into a fetal position. He was scared, and he didn't want to know why. "I wish you could stay." "Why can't I?" Lucas was surprised to realize that he meant the words. If Tim had it in him to murder someone....*even someone like Schwartz*...and Mark was working for Deon...and Captain Bridger was playing cloak-and-dagger with Section Seven...maybe he didn't want to go back to a world like that. "You said I had a choice." Brody drew back, seemingly hurt. "You do." He gestured around the beach. "You can stay here, if you want, and I'll take some time to show you around." Lucas let himself sit up again, half-expecting another burst of agony in his chest. When it didn't come, he was pleasantly surprised. "But you should go back." Lucas shook his head. "But what about you?" Brody grinned. "Don't worry about me. I'm dead, remember? Besides, once in a while I managed to pull some strings and see one of you guys again." He locked eyes with Lucas, and his voice fell into a serious, commanding tone: the tone that Lucas had always associated with the ambitious Lieutenant. "But they aren't ready to lose you yet. Tim's already been through Hell-- or at least, as close as he can get without dying. He doesn't need it again. None of them do." Lucas nodded, his eyes misting over. "I'll miss you." Now it was Brody's turn to shake his head. "I'll miss you too. But hey, once you die for real, we'll have eternity to catch up on each other." "I won't forget this." Now that Lucas was almost ready to make his decision, he noticed that the wind was picking up, and the light was growing dim...or was that because his time was running out? "It would take too long to explain. When you come back to us for good...then I'll take the time." Brody patted him on the back as he stood. "Just make your choice." "I'll go back." The words were said with conviction, and Lucas knew that he meant them. At first, nothing happened as he stood and faced his dead friend. Brody held out his hand, and Lucas grasped it, ready to shake hands and leave, knowing that he would finally be able to say a proper good-bye. But their hands never had the chance to meet. Lucas was slowly fading, becoming immaterial. The last sight he had of Brody was that of his smile. Then the grayness of the fog enveloped him and there was nothing. Until he heard the steady beeping of a monitoring system, seemingly far away. He heard distant voices, shouting. *Tim and Ford.* Something about nightmares, Macronesia, and cold blood. It didn't make much sense until he listened closer. He heard O'Neill's ranting about the incident last time in Macronesia. *When Brody died.* He heard O'Neill accuse Ford of not understanding, because Ford hadn't been there. He heard O'Neill sobbing. He heard as Ford left, and the sobs slowly softened, uneven breathing taking their place. TO BE CONTINUED... Copyright 1996 Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie =========================== PART 20 ===================================== Disclaimer: The following story belongs to Rachel Brody and Melissa Beattie. Duplication is _strictly prohibited_ without their permission. For the sake of sanity, please refrain from posting or sending this to others without their permission. Send Questions, comments, and constructive critiscism to: bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Introduction: This story takes place after "Weapons of War". The story is set up, to some degree, in "Fusion", "Kaos Theory", and "Cost of Living", which are also by Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie. "Revelations" (part IV) By Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Part 20 of 24 Chapter 20: O'Neill stood next to Lucas' bed, worrying. He's so pale. Lucas already looked dead. Someone stepped up behind him. Spiner again? "Haven't you said enough already?" "I didn't have the chance, thanks to _you_." That's not Spiner. He recognized the voice, though. No, that's impossible! He turned to face the newcomer. A tall, brown-haired, hazel-eyed man was standing there. "Jim?" O'Neill was so happy to see his friend that at first he didn't notice the expression on Brody's face. "Well, at least you remember who you didn't bother saying good-bye to." There was hatred in Brody's voice, and it tore through O'Neill like the shot that had killed Brody in the Macronesian airlock. He was so shocked that he couldn't answer. "So tell me, Tim," asked Brody, "Why did you leave the funeral? Was it too painful to watch Captain Hudson give that eulogy? Did it bring tears to your eyes? Did you feel the teeniest, tiniest bit responsible?" I didn't cry... "So you've felt guilty, all these months..." He lowered his voice. "And now, you've caused another death." He gestured, and O'Neill stared in horror at Lucas' life signs. They were all flat. Lucas was dead. "Dr. Perry! Dr. Burke! Help! Somebody!" O'Neill tried to call for help. "No one can hear you, Tim. Lucas is dead because you weren't fast enough. You should have noticed that Schwartz was waking up, and you should have stopped him before he had the chance to fire! But no. You didn't kill him until it was too late, and then only to satisfy your own conscience! It's your fault, Tim!" Yourfaultyourfaultyourfaultyourfault... "...Tim? Are you okay?" His voice, weak as it was, still managed to wake O'Neill with a start. "Lucas?" Tim sounded surprised, and incredibly relieved. "This isn't another nightmare, is it?" "No...I don't think so," he said uncertainly. "Are we on _seaQuest_?" Brody had said that his body was on _seaQuest_...it seemed like a dream now. An incredibly vivid dream, but a dream nonetheless. O'Neill told him an edited version of what had happened, from when the ceiling fell until Lucas had woken up. It included what he had done to Schwartz. "You _murdered_ Schwartz?!? In _cold blood_?" He was horrified. He had hoped that Brody had been mistaken. O'Neill nodded, apparently unable to do anything else. "I had to. He had just buried you alive. I--" Lucas, despite what Brody had told him, was still surprised. "You've heard this before." It wasn't a question. "I heard you and Commander Ford." "How much did you hear?" O'Neill sounded as though he was afraid to hear the answer. But Lucas gave it to him anyway. "Everything." He tried to sit up, then winced at the pain it caused. "I know you've been through Hell. So's everyone else." "No, you don't understand. It was all my fault." Lucas may have had decided to come back...*from what?*...but he hadn't been prepared to deal with O'Neill's guilt. Not yet. "It wasn't your fault." "You couldn't know." O'Neill didn't sound as angry as he had with Ford. Now, he sounded only lost. "You weren't there." "But Brody was." O'Neill looked up, and his eyes were tortured and haunted by memories that Lucas couldn't even begin to imagine. "And he didn't blame any of you." "How would you know?" A trace of his usual wry humor crept into O'Neill's voice. "Did he appear in your crystal ball?" Lucas knew that Tim was trying to be funny, knowing that Lucas had never believed in the supernatural. *Until now.* And he still wasn't sure of just how much he did. "He knew what he was doing. It was his decision." "He wouldn't have had to _make_ that decision if it wasn't for me." "You? Is that all you can think about? Yourself? You're not the only one who misses him!" Lucas knew that he shouldn't lash out like this...after all, Tim had been through enough already. But he didn't care anymore. *Funny how death'll do that to you...* "If you'd stop being so damned _arrogant_ for a second, maybe you'd be able to see that!" O'Neill looked shocked and hurt, but Lucas kept going, ignoring the pain that was beginning to build in his chest...it wasn't all from his injuries. "The world doesn't revolve around you, Timothy O'Neill, and the sooner you realize that Brody's death was his own fault--" O'Neill erupted in a burst of fury. "How _dare_ you say that?!? What he did was a hundred times more noble than anything you could ever even _hope_ to do! While you were safe, back here on _seaQuest_ with your damned _computers_, _we_ were out there risking our lives for Lonnie, and you have _no right_ to diminish his sacrifice!" "Just like _you_ have no right to use it as an excuse for murder!" O'Neill fell silent, shocked. When he finally spoke, it was with a chilly tone of voice that he had never before used with Lucas. "It wasn't murder, _Ensign_. It was _justice_." "Well, _Lieutenant_, far be it from _me_ to question a superior's _justice_." His voice was cold...colder than death. He felt cold inside, too. *I'm the last person he needed to hear that from. _Dammit_, how could I do that to him?* But before he had the chance to apologize, a high-pitched whine cut through his thoughts. He felt his chest tighten painfully, and his head began to throb. O'Neill looked up, alarmed. "Lucas? Are you okay?" He felt dizzy and disoriented... *Should've taken my chance to die when it would've been peaceful...* * * * * * Dr. Perry was off duty. That was why Burke was watching the monitor do something soon. "Medteam to the ICU, stat!" Her palm slapp the intercom before she raced out the door. "Are you okay?" Someone was in there? Why hadn't Perry told her? She sighed in exasperation as her feet pounded down on the floor. Now she'd have another person interfering with her jo hopes were dashed when he shook his head. "I-- I don't know... We were talking-- yelling actually, and he just..." O'Neill's voice trailed off as he gestured towards the bed. "Get obbed him by the arm and shoved him towards the door. She pushed O'Neill toward the door. Wolenczak had lapsed into unconsciousness again. "Is he all right?" O'Neill asked worriedly. Burke, fohim?" O'Neill shifted uneasily. It was enough to tell Burke that he had. "Look," Burke said, slightly more gently, "He's gonna be out for a while. Maybe you should get some sleep, or something." "Yeah. Maybe," O'Neill said in rgotten about O'Neill's ever having been there. * * * * * Ford looked down at the rapidly cooling split-pea soup in distaste. He hated pea soup, but it was all that the medical staff would allow him to have. However, his lack of appetite probabably of the topic of conversation. "Wait a sec," Piccolo was saying. "_Tim_ said that?" Ford nodded. "To _you_?" Ford nodded again. "Tim _O'Neill_?" "Yeah," Ford udder. "The look in his eyes..." He closed his eyes, trying to control an emotion he'd never even _imagined_ feeling in regards to O'Neill. Fear. "It scared the hell out of me," Ford continued in a low "I actually thought he might try to kill me." *And he might've been able to.* "Then," Ford continued, "He just...broke down." He shook his head. "You know that O'Neill and I have been friends for years. I thought I _knew_ and Piccolo exchanged a look that Ford couldn't interpret. "Yeah," Piccolo said, "So did we." Ford saw Henderson and Piccolo look up as a shadow fell next to hin without a word. The unease grew and grew, until Ford couldn't take it anymore. Abruptly, he stood, and all three at the table turned towards him. "Jonathan, where are you going?" Henderson asked. "I... uh... I have to go to the medbay for an exam. I'd forgotten all about ve. "But Commander," O'Neill began, "I neater_," Ford said with finality. He walked out of the mess hall. Ford had no intention of speaking to O'Neill later. Nor did he have a medical exam. His only intention was to escape the stranger who'd taken the form of his friend. * * * * * O'Neill watched Ford rush out of the room with a sinking heart. He'O'Neill turned back to Henderson and Piccolo, but he was unable to meet their eyes. He looked down, instead. Out of the corner of his eye, O'Neill saw Henderson get up. "Lonnie, where--" Piccolo started to say, but she cut him offat O'Neill, she was gone. "So, Tim," Piccolo said with false cheer, "How've you been?" Before O'Neill could answer, Piccolo spoke up again. "I...uh...I hope you're notin'." Piccolo sounded very nervous about something, O'Neill realized. He didn't know what. "I--" Piccolo continued, "I mean, we thought you were dead, so, uh..." he trailed off. "No, Tony, it's okay." Piccolo seemed to relax slightly, so he continued "so I'll just have to kill you." The actual fear that sprang into Piccolo's dark eyes shocked O'Neill. "Now, look, Tim," Piccolo said, almost sounding terrified, "You don't gotta--" "It was just a _joke_, Tony!" Piccolo swallowed hard. He didn't look convinced. "Yeah, sure it was," he said, chuckling weakly. "Real funieve that Piccolo had actually thought that O'Neill was _serious_ about killing him and Henderson. They couldn't know about what had happened unless... ... Unless Ford had told them. About Schwartz. And about their argument. O'Neill felt incredibly ashamed about what he'd said and done to Fordd a gun?* *Even that enraged, could I have injured him?* *Even that is would I have triedhingness. O'Neill wouldn't let it finish. He shoved it deep down, along with everything _else_ he'd felt since his outbuught despondently, his heart tearing and his soul shriveling more and more, to make room for the growing anger and fear as each second passed, *I've managed to destroy just about all of my friendships around here.* *What _will_ I do for an en had for a very long time. * * * * * Chandler and Michaels glared at Spiner. She hadn't stopped bragging since she'd gotten back. Chandler felt like shooting her. Or severing her spine. Or turning her over to the Macronesians. "That invinced that I was in love with him." Even Chandler had to stifle a chuckle. He'd only seen O'Neill once or twice, rsonage. Michaels was unamused. "You two are pitiful," she interjected. Chandler shot a glare in her general direction. "Leanne, shut up. What would _you_ know about love?". "You should have seen the look on his face when he found out that I wasn't some ditzy scientist." She giggled. Chandler smiled faint he realized that she'd had a few too many drinks. He passed her another one. This could be interesting. She took a quick sip, then placed her glass on the table next ...three, four, maybe five soldiers on the way out. But," she said, leaning forward, "That isn't the best part." Chandler and Michaels exchanged glances that clearly expressed just how little they actually cared. "The best part," she conp, then sat down, smiling. "He shot him!" she exclaimed. "That little twerp actually had the nerve to kill Bourne's Defense Advisor!" She barely managed to get the entire phrase out before she dissolved into a fit of drunken giggles. Michaeown mouth. More from Spiner's condition than what she said about O'Neill. He really didn't care what some idiot Naval officer did, but Spiner's behavior was certainly interesting him. He wondered how he could broach drunk while on duty. He caught Michaels' eye, and she nodded, ever-so-slightly. She was with him on this. Then again, he decided, he wouldn't mind seeing Spiner get busted down a rank or three afttely toin and collapsed into the chair by his desk. Out of habit, he opened the drawer and pulled out his journal. Unlike most of his other posessions, it didn't seem to have been touched. Thank God. He had written things in the journal in and tried to write down his feelings. He found he couldn't. There were too many. They raged inside of him, changing too quickly to be identified. He had no control. Again. After what he'd done last time, and aring him apart. He was desperate for control. If he lost it, as it seemed he would... He realized that there was only one way, one _certain_ way, to make sure that it didn't happen. O'Neil looked around, and found it right where he'd laid it. On his bed. He picked it up. *It's the only woice: his own. But the tone, the _emotion_, was rarely heard inside the entity that called itself Tim O'Neill. It was the voice that had recently been forcibly unburied from the dark recesses of his mind, and shoved forward, as he'd been forced to pretend to be Atkinson. *If you wanted this, you're hand wouldn't be sse Advisor had felt when the charge ripped through his stomach, leaving behind a trail of torn flesh and bone, enjoying every second as Schwartz's life had left him in one thick, crimson gush. It was the voice of the id, the shal of one's deepest, darkest emotions hold sway. It scared the hell out of him. Literally. He'd always been careful to keep his temper in check, forcing it down, deeper and deeper, until he couldn't feel it. He'd been successful. Until now. The reactions of his crewmates-- he no los what tipped the balance. He rested the barrel of the gun, _Atkinson's_ gun, against his temple. O'Neill squeezed the trigger. TO BE CONTINUED... Copyright 1996 Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie =========================== PART 21 ===================================== Disclaimer: The following story belongs to Rachel Brody and Melissa Beattie. Duplication is _strictly prohibited_ without their permission. For the sake of sanity, please refrain from posting or sending this to others without their permission. Send Questions, comments, and constructive critiscism to: bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Introduction: This story takes place after "Weapons of War". The story is set up, to some degree, in "Fusion", "Kaos Theory", and "Cost of Living", which are also by Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie. "Revelations" (part IV) By Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Part 21 of 24 Chapter 21: Lucas had never before realized how quiet his quarters could be. The silence was like thunder. And he was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. *How could this have happened?* He and Tim had never fought. He felt as though he didn't have a friend in the world. He had been lying down for too long. Almost half an hour. As much as he didn't want to, he stood and walked to his computer. It was down. *A perfect ending to a perfect day.* There was a knock at the door. *And it's not even over yet.* He closed his eyes, wishing for a fraction of a second that he could flip a switch and turn off the world. Maybe that would give him a chance to recharge his batteries. "Come in." He flopped back onto his bed. He winced in pain as his skull collided with the metal wall. *That's gonna leave a bump-- I hope.* He still hadn't recovered from that dream. He didn't entirely want to. Everything had seemed so clear... "Lucas?" O'Neill was standing in the doorway. "Lieutenant? How can I help you?" There was tension between them that Lucas hadn't noticed before. O'Neill moved slowly towards the bed, and carefully sat next to him. He didn't look at Lucas as he spoke. "He had a daughter." Lucas was confused. "Who?" "Schwartz. Her name is Lydia. She's nine years old." O'Neill made a choked sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "How am I supposed to tell a nine-year-old that I murdered her father?" Lucas' mind was reeling. What the hell was O'Neill talking about? "A few minutes ago, I was sitting in my quarters." O'Neill sounded as though he were leading to the punchline of a bad joke. "I kept--" O'Neill broke off and blinked. A tear fell down his face. "I kept seeing myself pull the trigger. Over, and over, and over again. Eventually, I-- I couldn't take it." His speech was broken by tiny sobs. "I looked down at the gun: the-- the one I used on him. And I picked it up, and I held it to my-- to my temple... And I pulled the trigger." Lucas was horrified as O'Neill gave a bitter laugh. "The damned thing was out of ammunition." Tears of despair filled his eyes. "I can't even kill myself right." *He's insane!* Lucas couldn't think of what to say. O'Neill had tried to _kill_ himself? "What the hell were you thinking!?" He hadn't meant for it to come out as an accusation. "I deserve to die." The statement was said so simply, without emotion, as though the fact should have been obvious. Lucas couldn't understand what Tim was saying. To him, at least, it didn't make any sense. "Why?" "I _killed_ a man in _cold blood_. Haven't you ever heard of capital punishment?" The last time Lucas knew of that the UEO had used capital punishment had been when he was three years old. "Capital punishment hasn't been in effect for years." O'Neill looked disconsolate as he replied. "They ought to bring it back." He sounded so sincere, so intent on proving his point-- whatever that was... "You're going too far again. You're taking all the blame." The tactic had worked once before, and this time the stakes were higher. Much higher. It didn't show much chance of working again. O'Neill looked even more disturbed than before. *Not an easy thing to manage.* "Who am I supposed to share it with? It's all my fault." "But what about everybody else?" Didn't O'Neill realize what kind of effect another death would have on the rest of the crew? "They don't care," O'Neill said bleakly. "They're better off without me." The impact of that argument hit him like a freight train. Tim had been quiet ever since Lucas had met him. He always kept his feelings bottled up, never letting anyone get too close. Lucas had never wondered why that was. Not until now. "But-- But that's just not true! There are people who need you!" "Name one." "Me." "Other than you." *What, I don't count?* Problem was, O'Neill had a point. All of his close friends were dead. "But I'm your friend!" "Really?" O'Neill laughed sardonically. "You know, I don't think I really even know what that means." He took a deep breath and stared at the floor. "I've never really had a friend. Everybody who called themself my `friend' was just using me for something. You know, they needed something translated...needed help with their homework...something like that. A good computer can do the same thing, and you don't even have to pretend to like it." Lucas was appalled by O'Neill's confession. He'd been used too, but never to the extent that O'Neill seemed to mean. Then a thought occurred to him. "Tim, this isn't about you." "Oh really? Did someone else commit cold-blooded murder?" Now, it was time for Lucas to figure out what on Earth he'd been talking about. Who was it about, if not O'Neill? "Tim, you can't be serious." "Why the hell not?" *Because if you are, that means that I'm going to lose one of the last people in my life who I can count on-- who I really care about.* By Lucas' count, that made way too many friends. He couldn't bear to lose another one. "Look, Tim...what do you want me to say?" O'Neill shrugged, as though threatening to kill himself was something he did every day. "I want you to forgive me." *Forgive him?* Lucas didn't know what O'Neill would need his forgiveness for. "For what? Saving my life?" "Saving your life?" The question seemed to anger him. Lucas couldn't understand why. "I was indulging in my own petty vengeance while you were buried alive! _Spiner_ and _Murphy_ were the ones who dug you out. I was too busy committing murder. I don't deserve to live." Was that what this was about? Guilt? Because for once in his life, O'Neill had put himself first? *Great reason to kill yourself.* "Tim, you're only human!" They all were. "Is that supposed to be some kind of excuse? Is that supposed to make everything okay?" "You're not perfect." "I should have been." O'Neill looked lost. But only for a second. "You don't understand," he said bleakly. Then, before Lucas had a chance to do anything else, he was gone. Lucas had the sinking feeling that he hadn't been much help. In fact, by the way O'Neill had acted, he might have done more harm than good. But he had to have done enough. He had to have talked Tim out of it. There was no way... ...But there was. He felt his heart jump into his throat. O'Neill hadn't thought he'd understood. In truth, he hadn't. He realized he was holding his breath, and expelled it forcefully, not sure of what to do. He had to do _something_, didn't he? He couldn't just let Tim go off and... He couldn't even think it. He fumbled as he reached to the floor and groped under his bed for his PAL. He took a precious moment to dwell on the absurdity of the name. Pal. As if the tiny device, not unlike an antique walkie-talkie, was some sort of friend. Well, it wasn't. But if he could move fast enough, it might be enough to save one. Even though he'd known Ford's PAL code for years, it took almost a full second for him to recall it, and another to dial it in. "Ford here." He took a deep breath, suddenly unsure of himself. O'Neill had taken him into confidence. Did he really have a right to go around blabbing about his friend's instability, when all he had telling him that something was going to go desperately wrong was a feeling in his gut that made him want to throw up? A loud voice in his head told the doubting half of his mind to shut up. After all, Tim's life could be at stake here. He wasn't qualified to make a decision like that. "Lucas?" Ford's voice, persistent now, made Lucas realize that he had been silent for several seconds. "Commander?" he asked, his voice slightly breathless from the adrenaline that had surged into his veins. "Commander, you've got to talk to Tim! He--" "I don't have _anything_ to say to him, Lucas." Ford's voice was angrier than Lucas could have imagined. He didn't know why. He didn't have a chance to ponder the subject, however, as Ford pushed on. "I appreciate that you want to help," he continued, "but as far as I'm concerned, he can go to hell." Lucas was too shocked to tell Ford that O'Neill might be on his way to doing just that. By the time he thought he had a chance of forcing the words past the lump in his throat, Ford had disconnected. *Who else?* He didn't have time to persuade Ford, and he doubted that the commander would listen to him long enough to try. Lonnie would be with Ford, and Lucas doubted that it would be of much use to him to attempt to have her make it to O'Neill's quarters in time. He knew that Piccolo was on duty, and besides, he couldn't think of anyone he'd want to try to talk Tim out of what he was going to try than the joke-cracking Warrant Officer. Kimura was just as likely to help O'Neill do away with himself as talk him out of it. The next name to pop into his mind was, he knew, the only logical choice remaining. Even though O'Neill and Hudson argued a lot, Lucas had the feeling that Hudson had the best chance of convincing Tim not to do something stupid. As he looked up the captain's PAL number, he thanked God that O'Neill's weapon had been unloaded. His friend would have to stop at the armory first for more ammunition. Maybe, he thought hopefully, he wouldn't be able to get any. *Stop trying to rationalize this away!* he shouted at himself. He didn't have the time. "Captain?" he asked as the PAL connected, his voice cracking. He knew that Hudson hadn't entirely forgiven him for what he'd done earlier, even though it hadn't been his fault. Telling him what Lucas was afraid of would be difficult, if not impossible. In fact, he didn't know if he'd be able to. "Ensign?" Even Hudson's voice was almost icy. "Captain," he began. Then everything just poured out, and no matter how much the scientific part of his brain tried to make him slow down, he couldn't stop the flow of words. "I think you'd better go see Tim `cause I think he's going--" "Ensign," Hudson commanded, "Slow down." He took a deep breath. Not knowing where Hudson was made what he had to say even harder. He exhaled slowly, knowing that his voice was shaking and his eyes were threatening to overflow. He just couldn't get the image of O'Neill, so forlorn and depressed, out of his head. He'd failed. "You've gotta talk to Tim." He cut himself off before he said much else. The less he could get away with, the better. He heard Hudson's muffled voice, along with someone elses. He couldn't tell whose. "Ensign," Hudson said after too long, "I'm afraid I'm a bit busy--" "No!" Lucas shouted venomously. He wasn't about to lose Hudson. Not when he didn't have anyone else to tell. "You-- you've _got_ to go to his quarters before he--" He choked off as the first tear overflowed. "Before he _what_?" "I-- I don't know, sir. He came in here, and he was so upset about-- about everything that's happened, and he told me that he had tried to kill himself and I really tried to help him, but he wouldn't listen and he said I don't understand and he left and I think he's going to try something again and Commander Ford won't go see him and I don't think Lonnie or Tony is anywhere near close enough and you're the only person left who I can think of and you've _got_ to do something because if Tim kills himself I don't know what I'll--" Lucas knew that he wasn't making any sense. Luckily, it appeared that somewhere along the way, Hudson had become fluent in disjointed explanations. "Where is he now?" "I think he's going back to his quarters." Hudson's voice was even as he replied. "I'll see what I can do," he said, before he closed the channel. *I'll see what I can do...* The six words bounced off the interior of his skull. He couldn't think of what to say, what to do, anything. He had to wait, and hope that Hudson could do what he hadn't been able to. Hudson brushed past Montgomery, not caring that she ordered him to stay put. He'd put up with enough of her orders. The entire crew had. Thanks to her, he might lose one of them. He hoped Wolenczak had told him everything. He had dealt with suicides before, and knew that any detail might be crucial. But in his practically incoherent accounting of what was going on, he knew that the boy could have easily left something out. He hoped not. His pace, a near run, was fast enough to get him to the maglev car, which took longer than forever to reach his destination. The section that held O'Neill's quarters. He only prayed he'd be in time. The day had been an eventful one. CPO Ray Stilwell was starving. At least, as close to starving as one could get when one's last meal was almost six hours ago. He was also bored to tears. How this was possible on a day when so much was going on was easy to explain. None of the "emergencies", at least, not so far, had concerned the armory. That was where the schedule rotation had stuck him today. He had nothing to do but stand guard at the inner doors to the rooms that held the entire weapons inventory of the _seaQuest_. No one had even come by in the last shift. Not even a request for a spare nuclear warhead. Not that he'd expected one. In fact, the biggest event that he'd had to deal with walked in the door as he was imagining how nice it would be to go back to his quarters when his relief showed up, lie down, and sleep. He had been surprised when scuttlebutt had notified him that Lieutenant O'Neill was alive. One of his close friends, Amy Shanahan, had been on the bridge when Ensign Wolenczak had taken Commander Ford hostage. She'd wasted no time once she'd gotten off shift in telling Stilwell's girlfriend, Erin Wilson, about what had happened. Erin and Ford went way back. They had known each other even before the second _seaQuest_ had been built. If Stilwell hadn't known that their relationship was almost a brother-sister type of thing, he might have felt a twinge of suspicion at how upset Wilson had been. He might have thought she had a thing for the Commander. But that, he reminded himself, was really Amy's department. He had only seen Lieutenant O'Neill in person a couple of times. Being the head of communications, O'Neill spent most of his time on the bridge. Stilwell, on the other hand, was usually below decks. But something seemed off as the lieutenant stopped in front of him. "I need some ammunition," he said. Stilwell nodded and unlocked the door, not worried. After all, the senior staff had full access to the weaponry aboard. And O'Neill was, at least according to rumor, a pretty responsible guy. Still, Stilwell felt a bit uneasy as the lieutenant emerged from the room with an ammo pack that would fit the kind of gun that Stilwell knew could do some pretty heavy damage. He wondered what the hell a person like O'Neill wanted with ammunition for something like that, especially aboard the _seaQuest_. Even though things could get hectic around here, they were usually pretty peaceful in the in between periods. He'd hoped they were in one of the "in between" periods. He ceased thinking about O'Neill as his stomach rumbled again. He checked his watch and sighed. Another two hours left before he could go to the mess hall and get something to eat. Good lord, he was hungry. When it hadn't worked before, O'Neill had assumed that it was a sign that something had been left undone. Now, however, he saw that it had been his own stupidity. Well, a quick stop by the armory had taken care of _that_. He was just loading the gun when the door opened. "Lieutenant?" Hudson's voice called, sounding almost concerned. O'Neill stayed silent, nearly invisible in the shadows. "Where are you?" Hudson asked. When O'Neill didn't answer, Hudson hit a switch on the wall and light flooded the room. "Actually," O'Neill said flatly, "I preferred it dark." "Lieutenant, I know what you're trying to do." "Do you?" "Ensign Wolenczak called me--" "_Lucas_?!?" O'Neill couldn't believe it. He'd been betrayed. By the last person for whom he'd had even an iota of trust for. He raised the gun slightly, and thumbe3d off the safety. "Put it down," Hudson commanded. O'Neill chuckled at Hudson's order. "Why should I?" Hudson looked annoyed. "Lieutenant, I am giving you a _direct_ order--" "Have you ever noticed," O'Neill interrupted darkly, "That no one ever _follows_ a direct order?" As Hudson tried to think of an answer, O'Neill raised the gun to his temple. "Lieutenant," Hudson said finally, "You are going to _put_ that gun _down_, and you are going to _talk_ to me." *Does he _really_ think that'll work?* O'Neill wondered. "Go away," he said tiredly. Hudson ignored the request. "At least tell me _why_." Despite himself, O'Neill answered. "Atkinson. He has to die." "Who?" O'Neill ignored him, the tenuous control he'd achieved slipping. "He's inside me!" he almost yelled. Hudson's eyes narrowed. "Another personality?" "No!" O'Neill cried in frustration. "He's my-- my shadow side! My id!" He stopped himself, fighting to regain control. He took a deep breath and continued. "I can't take the chance that he'll break free again. _This_," he said, waving the gun slightly, "Is the only way." He pressed the gun firmly against his temple. Hudson looked stunned at O'Neill's outburst. "But," Hudson said, obviously trying to recover, "It's the _wrong_ way." Though O'Neill's first inclination was to disagree, he realized that Hudson had a point. "You're right." He moved the gun away from his temple... ...And pressed it against his abdomen. *If it was good enough for Jim, it's certainly better than I deserve.* "No!" Hudson protested, "That's not--" O'Neill squeezed the trigger. The pain felt like fire as it tore through him. It joined with his internal conflageration, forming a blazing inferno. He embraced it. Ford walked into the medbay for his exam. His _real_ exam. But the place was all but deserted. "I don't know, sir," a nurse told him when he asked. "There was some emergency. Perry and Burke are scrubbing up now." Mere seconds later, a medtean arrived, but Ford was unable to see who the patient was, due to the activity around them. Perry came out of pre-op, and ordered the patioent prepped for surgery. Ford heard her mutter, "I'll be damned if we lose another one with an abdominal wound like this." Ford began to worry. He'd hit `mildly scared', by the time Hudson arrived, thirty seconds later. "Captain," Ford called, "What's going on?" "Commander, am I glad to see you." Hudson sounded slightly winded, as though he'd been running all the way to the medbay. "I need you to get up to the bridge." "But," Ford protested in confusion, "I haven't been cleared--" "Go. I need you to tell them what's happened." "I don't _know_ what's happened!" Hudson blinked, and seemed to get a handle on whatever it was that had gotten him so upset in the first place. "Sorry." He closed his eyes. "Lieutenant O'Neill just shot himself. Intentionally." If anyone had asked him what had happened next, Ford couldn't have said. The next thing he knew was that he was leaning on a nearby bulkhead, with Hudson gripping his arm to keep him upright. "Commander, are you all right?" Hudson asked. Ford was still in shock. "What have I _done_?" he whispered. "_You_?" Ford looked up at him. "Sir, I-- I confronted him about something he'd done in Macronesia. We argued, and I walked out." Ford decided to spare O'Neill the embarrassment of telling Hudson about his breakdown. "Then, earlier, he tried to apologize, and I left. Sir," Ford said, looking at the deck, "It's all my fault." "Don't blame yourself, Commander," Hudson said heavily. "If Ensign Wolenczak hadn't told me, I'd--" At the mention of Lucas, Ford's head snapped up. "_Lucas_ called you?" Hudson nodded. "Why?" Numbly, Ford replied. "He contacted me too, probably right before he called you." Ford closed his eyes. "I told him that Tim could burn in Hell, for all I cared." Hudson's expression turned sympathetic. "Maybe, _I_ should go to the bridge. You look like you need some rest." Ford nodded. "First, I should tell Lonnie. She and Tim were _are_-- close. She'll want to know." "I'll let you know if there's any change." Ford nodded his thanks and left. He walked down the various corridors to Henderson's quarters. As usual, he entered her quarters without more than a token knock. Piccolo was there with her. "... He seemed so down when I left, that I-- Oh," Piccolo stopped his story when he noticed Ford's entrance. "Hi, Commander." He stood. "Uh, I can leave..." "No," Ford said wearily, "You need to know, too." And then, he lost his nerve. He stood, staring at her, unable to force the words out. "Jonathan?" she asked, rising from the bed, "What's wrong?" "O'Neill just tried to kill himself." It had taken almost all Ford had to get the simple, blunt statement past the lump in his throat. He didn't know how he'd be able to tell her the rest. Henderson's hand flew to her mouth in horror. "Oh my God..." She turned shocked brown eyes onto him. "What happened?" And, syllable by agonizing syllable, the story came out. How O'Neill had shot himself in the chest, the same way he'd shot Schwartz. The same way that Jim had been shot. He was unable to continue after that. He stared down at the deck. "He blamed himself, didn't he?" Ford nodded in answer to her quiet question. She'd moved very close to him, unsurprising in the tight accommodations a military submarine had to offer. His first, undeniable instinct was to reach out and hold her. It was a rare occasion that Ford just needed someone to be there. This qualified as one. "I should've known," he moaned into her shoulder. "Why didn't I see it coming?" That was what bothered him the most: that he'd just _let_ it happen. That he hadn't realized, and tried to prevent it. The only one who'd known had been Lucas, and Ford had blown him off. And now, O'Neill could die because of it. "Jonathan, stop." Henderson was trying her damnedest not to let him condemn himself. "You're not omniscient. You couldn't have known what Tim was planning." There was a moment's pause, as she undoubtably realized that Ford wasn't agreeing. "It's not your fault," she insisted. "That's what I keep telling myself," he muttered. *And I'm wrong, every single time.* TO BE CONTINUED... Copyright 1996 Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie =========================== PART 22 ===================================== Again, guys, feedback! R Disclaimer: The following story belongs to Rachel Brody and Melissa Beattie. Duplication is _strictly prohibited_ without their permission. For the sake of sanity, please refrain from posting or sending this to others without their permission. Send Questions, comments, and constructive critiscism to: bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Introduction: This story takes place after "Weapons of War". The story is set up, to some degree, in "Fusion", "Kaos Theory", and "Cost of Living", which are also by Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie. "Revelations" (part IV) By Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Part 22 of 24 Chapter 22: Chandler glared at Michaels as she stood and walked towards him. "Wolenczak's had over eight hours out of the ICU," she said, an edge to her tone that let Chandler know she had something for him to do. Something he'd probably enjoy, by the looks of things. "And he still hasn't filed his final report." Chandler nodded, knowing now what it was she needed him for. "I'm sick of doing your dirty work, Leanne," he said. It was a lie, really, because he enjoyed it a great deal. But there was no reason not to make a big deal out of the fact that Michaels needed his help. And she acted so self-important all the time, as though she could get along without him. She glared right back. "That's crap," she said. "Chandler, if I didn't give you my `dirty work', as you term it, what on Earth would you do with yourself?" She turned back to her computer screen. He shrugged. "I don't know," he said, settling back against the wall. "Follow some intellectual pursuits...write the great American novel...take up golf..." She looked up at him. A smile was now on her face. She recognized the familiar pattern that he had fallen into. They went through this every time she needed a favor. "Go to Hell, Pete." "See you there, kid." He left too quickly to see the expression of contempt that crossed her face. But he didn't need to _see_ it to know that it had been there. That Michaels' youth was a constant source of his insults was fine with him. Youth could be an advantage. It could also make you vulnerable. He was on his way to visit someone who should be a particularly vulnerable youth at the moment. * * * * * Lucas looked up at the knock on his door, half-dreading who it could be. If it was O'Neill, that would be good news. If Hudson, he supposed it could really be taken either way. He cautiously slid off his bed, where he'd been lying ever since Hudson had signed off, waiting for some sort of indication that his friend was alive, or dead, or _something_. He turned the knob, and let the door swing open. "Lieutenant Chandler?" He hadn't expected to see the man again. He'd thought it was a one-shot deal. *Yeah, right,* he told himself. *Like Section Seven would miss a chance to "chat".* Chandler didn't seem to be struck by the same momentary hesitation that Lucas was caught up in. He pushed by, into the room, and looked around. As his eyes fell on Lucas' computer, and Lucas followed his gaze, he realized that it was up and running again. "Finally getting around to that report you were going to file?" Chandler asked. Lucas couldn't be sure of what it was, but something in Chandler's tone reminded him of Arkara. He shivered as goosebumps formed at the unpleasant-- extremely unpleasant-- memories that the name brought back. "Report?" Chandler nodded, almost pleasantly now. "All of Section Seven's agents are required to file a full report on their activities within four hours of returning to regulated duty." He checked his watch. "It's been...almost a day." Lucas looked at him in disbelief. "I was-- I was in the ICU until eight hours ago!" he said. He supposed that his worries about O'Neill made him lower his guard. It wasn't a good thing. "And besides, what are you talking about? I'm not a Section Seven agent!" He returned Chandler's almost frightening gaze, trying and failing to match it. "I've got a lot on my mind. I don't have time for some stupid report--" He cut himself off as Chandler grabbed him by the arm and slammed him against the wall. He felt a dull ache begin at the base of his neck, like he'd gotten a mild case of whiplash, and several stars went nova behind his eyes as he blinked. "Stupid report?" Chandler asked, his voice dangerous. Lucas wasn't sure exactly why Chandler seemed so angry. His only prior personal experiance with Section Seven had been when Captain Bridger had drafted him, along with Commander Ford and Dagwood, to go to Barrabas and help him cover up the experiments on GELFs. Captain Bridger had never struck him as the type to work in Section Seven. Now, as he stared at the furious lieutenant, he knew why. He also didn't know exactly how to respond to Chandler's "question". "I haven't even had time to file a report with Captain Hudson!" he said. Chandler's expression turned angry. "You're not going to." Lucas was shocked. "Not going to? Of course I'm going to! I'm not affiliated with Section Seven, and I'm not going to keep what happened to myself!" He'd seen what holding things in had done to O'Neill. He still didn't know what had happened, he suddenly realized. He tried to shake Chandler's grip, and found he couldn't. "I've gotta go," he exclaimed. He had reached his own personal breaking point. He couldn't stand not knowing what had happened to Tim any longer. Chandler shook his head, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Oh no," he said. "You're not going anywhere." Lucas jerked his arm out of Chandler's hand with a sudden tug, and ducked away. Unfortunately, Chandler was still in between him and the door. In retrospect, he supposed that expecting to be able to push past the agent-- who was almost twice his size-- was more than a bit foolish. But he still wasn't prepared for the blow Chandler delivered to his solar plexus. He doubled over, unable to breathe. Next thing he knew, Chandler head grabbed him by the collar and shoved him against the bulkhead. "Now look, you arrogant sonofabitch," Chandler said, his voice remaining quiet even as Lucas struggled to extradite himself from the grip, "I want that report done in twenty minutes, and on my desk. If it's not--" "What?" Lucas looked over Chandler's shoulder. The agent did the same. Captain Hudson was standing in the open doorway. As soon as Lucas felt Chandler's grip relax, he tore himself out of it and ducked under his arm, taking a few steps towards Hudson. The captain's glance shifted from him to Chandler, and the undertones of fury that shone through made Lucas wonder if there was something he should be worrying about-- besides what Chandler might have done if Hudson hadn't appeared. His arm was still throbbing from the strength of the lieutenant's grip. Hudson crossed the small room in only a couple of steps, stopping several feet from Chandler. Lucas wasn't sure if it was intentional or not, but Hudson seemed to have inserted himself between them. "Ensign Wolenczak," Hudson began, his voice slightly this side of neutral. He turned to Lucas. "What's going on here?" Chandler's gaze flickered to the computer monitor. Hudson's followed it. "Mr. Wolenczak--" Lucas had the sudden sinking feeling that, once again, for the umpteenth time since he'd gotten involved with Section Seven, someone was going to make sure he didn't get the chance to tell the whole story. Well, dammit, he'd had enough of that to last him a lifetime. He took a deep breath. "Shut up!" he said to the lieutenant, not caring that he was out of line and bordering insubordination. "He wasn't talking to you!" "Ensign," Chandler began, his menacing tone now obvious, "You " "Will, as Ensign Wolenczak put it, shut up." Hudson glared at Chandler. "I may not be in Section Seven, but I _still_ outrank you. Get the hell out. And I must say that it's pretty damned suspicious to find you in here having an argument with--" Hudson stopped talking as Chandler turned and left, not even waiting to hear the end of his sentence. He turned to Lucas. His face was a question mark. Lucas could tell that Hudson wanted to ask him what had happened, but he didn't want to think about it. Besides, he needed to know if O'Neill was okay. "Where's Tim?" he asked. Hudson's expression sank. *Ohshitohshitohshitohshitohshitohshitoh--* "He's in the medbay." *Thank God...* But the way Hudson said it... "What happened?" Hudson shook his head. "He shot himself." *Ohshitohshitohshitohshitohshitohshitoh--* "But he's should survive." Lucas didn't need to hear the unvoiced thought-- if he _wanted_ to. Although the Captain could confine O'Neill to quarters, lock him in the brig, or have him strapped to a bed in the medbay, he couldn't force O'Neill to live if the lieutenant didn't want to. * * * * * "Night" in _seaQuest_'s medbay made fore a very dim room. The low lights caused shadows to form anywhere and everywhere. In the ICU, one of those shadows moved. Heiko Kimura silently walked over to where O'Neill lay in a coma. His lifesigns were weak, though they had been strengthening of late. The doctors had been hinting that he'd be off life-support soon. This was her last opportunity. She quietly stepped over to the bank of machines that were, for the moment, at least, keeping O'Neill alive. Her hand sought, then found the appropriate button. Her hand hovered over it, a Sword of Damocles poised to fall, and allow O'Neill to regain his honor. It was inconceivable to Kimura why they'd resuscitated him. The only honorable resolution to a dishonorable action was suicide. Everyone knew that. Her hand inched lower, then came to rest lightly on the button. With one, tiny push, he would be redeemed. *Do it,* her mind insisted. *Do it!* She couldn't do it. Kimura stood there, putting her hand back at her side, and tried to determine why it was that she couldn't do as she'd been taught. Why it was so impossible to do what she knew was right. Part of her mind said that it was revenge. He wouldn't let her go in her fighter and die, to regain her honor. By not letting him die, _he_ would have to live in dishonor, as well. Which brought up another point. The phrase "misery loves company" flashed into her mind. She could accept both of these reasons. The only other possibility was one Kimura refused to consider. As she glanced over at him, she noticed that a lock of O'Neill's chocolate-brown hair had fallen across his forehead. Absently, she brushed it back into place. Sighing, she left the medbay. Whether he lived or died was now up to O'Neill. * * * * * After getting off duty a few hours ago, Piccolo had come directly to O'Neill's bedside. The lieutenant was lying in the bed, his skin paler than usual. His arms and legs were held to the bed with four-point restraints. It broke Piccolo's heart to see his friend restrained like a criminal. Or a lunatic. "Uh, Tim," Piccolo began unsurely, "I dunno if you can hear me, but, uh--" He broke off as O'Neill moaned. "Tim?!?" Slowly, O'Neill opened his eyes. He blinked a few times. "Oh, _damn_," he muttered, obviously disappointed by his condition. "You're alive!" Piccolo exclaimed. He knew that was obvious, but he didn't know why he was telling it to O'Neill. As far as Tim was concerned, that was the problem. O'Neill shut his eyes and nodded weakly. "I know." "How do you feel?" O'Neill sighed. "Lousy." Piccolo nodded slowly. "Is there somethin' I can do?" "Yeah." O'Neill opened his eyes and looked directly at Piccolo. "Take off these restraints." He looked at the bands covering his wrists. "Let me finish what I started." Piccolo shuddered at the conviction and longing in O'Neill's voice. "You know I can't." Betrayal and anger flashed into O'Neill's eyes, but his voice was like that of a child who's been told he can't have a pair of expensive sneakers. "Why _not_?!?" "You mean too much to me, dammit! To all of us!" O'Neill blinked at Piccolo's uncharacteristic burst of emotion. For a moment, Tony was sure he'd said something meaningful. But all hopes that he'd gotten through were dashed when O'Neill turned on a skeptical glare. "Right." Piccolo was stunned. How could O'Neill not realize how much everyone cared? "You need an example?" O'Neill didn't respond. Piccolo shrugged and decided to go on. If nothing else, the talking made him feel better. "Okay. When Lonnie ran into you during her tour, she was _happy_. For the first time since this whole mess started." "Maybe so," O'Neill admitted, "But that's not the most important reason." His voice dropped to a near-whisper. "I can deal with everyone hating me. I've done it before. I can even deal with hating myself. But..." He looked away. "But what?" Piccolo was frustrated so much that he was ready to scream. But he didn't. O'Neill didn't need anyone else screaming at him. "What could be so horrible that you'd do this?!?" O'Neill opened his mouth to speak, but then shut it and shook his head. "I can't tell you," he whispered. Piccolo leaned closer. "Why not?" he asked, almost desperately. "Tim, you've gotta tell me _something_." O'Neill looked back at him, then shut his eyes. "Atkinson." For a moment, Piccolo had no idea of who O'Neill was talking about. Then he remembered what Henderson had told him when she'd returned from Deon's tour. "Your assumed name?" O'Neill shook his head, and opened his eyes. "He's not just a name anymore. _I can't control him_! Or it, or whatever I am anymore!" Ford had told both Piccolo and Henderson about what had happened in Macronesia. Henderson had told him about O'Neill's assumed name. But O'Neill had just told him the true story. "Tim, you've been holdin' your feelings in for too long!" He shook his head. "You were right. You _have_ forgotten how to open yourself. You shove everything down so deep that you can't touch it! But you're full, Tim: there's _no more room_! That's why everything's overflowin'!" As he realized what he'd just said, and the fact that even thougth Tim was unstable and a bit off his rocker, he'd know what Piccolo had done, he snapped his mouth shut immediately. "How the hell would _you_ know?" O'Neill asked dangerously. "I read your journals," Piccolo confessed. He didn't have a choice, he knew. "We thought you were dead. Lonnie and I--" O'Neill spoke through him, ignoring his apologies. "Then," he said, his voice quivering, "You know. Everything." Piccolo nodded, unwilling to deny anything. "About how you left the funeral, how you couldn't cry, how you felt betrayed when you stuck up for Captain Bridg--" O'Neill angrily cut him off. "Okay. You know everything. Everything I've ever seen, heard, felt-- All of it was in that journal." Even though O'Neill's tone was sarcastic, Piccolo could tell that there was more truth than O'Neill was comfortable with in his words. "You know me better than I know myself, okay? Can we please get to the point?" "The point is that I never woulda known! How can I make you see this? You never _showed_ anything! You just locked it up somewhere so you wouldn't hafta face it!" "I don't have a choice, Tony!" O'Neill argued, as passionate as Piccolo had ever heard him. "Showing emotions like that makes me vulnerable!" The instant that the words left O'Neill's mouth, Piccolo could tell that he wanted them back. "Vulnerable? To what?" Piccolo asked gently. "Leave me alone." "To bein' embarrased?" Piccolo had to ignore the haunted look that leapt into O'Neill's eyes as he spoke. "You afraid we're gonna hurt you?" O'Neill looked away. Piccolo put his hand comfortingly around Tim's wrist. "Tim, that ain't gonna happen. We're your friends." He paused, searching for a response, but O'Neill refused to look at him, staring at the wall again. "Besides, look at what bottlin' it up's got you." He looked around the room, at the medical equipment that was keeping his friend alive. When he spoke again, his voice was almost contemplative. "Lettin' it out's not as bad as you think." He shrugged. "Seems to work pretty good for the rest of us." O'Neill seemed very shaky all of a sudden, his earlier anger evaporated. "But what if I lose control again?" he whispered. Piccolo smiled at him. "You won't. The only reason that it was so bad this time was 'cause there was so much at once." Just then, Dr. Burke stuck her head in. "I'm sorry, but Commander Ford is waiting to see the lieutenant." Piccolo nodded. "We're almost done," he told her. Once she left, Piccolo turned back to O'Neill. "Looks like I gotta go. But one thing..." "Yeah?" "You gotta promise me that you'll think about what I said, and that you won't try anything." If he couldn't be sure, Piccolo wasn't leaving. Come Hell or high water or Dr. Perry herself, he'd stay by Tim's bedside until he was certain of his friend's intentions. O'Neill looked away. "Tony, I--" "Promise me, Tim. Look me straight in the eyes, and promise me." O'Neill looked up, and locked his tortured gaze with Piccolo's concerned, chocolate-brown eyes "I promise," he said quietly. Piccolo smiled, knowing that O'Neill would keep his word. "I'll come back soon." He turned to leave. "Tony?" He turned back. Suddenly, O'Neill sounded like a lost child. And Piccolo didn't want to lev ehim alone if there was any way to avoid it. "Yeah?" "How do you know all of this?" Piccolo shrugged. "The prison therapist an' I were close friends," he explained. He'd learned a lot in prison. Not all the lessons had been psychological. "Actually, she taught me one other thing that might be useful to you." "What?" O'Neill asked. "That, no matter what you do, you can't bring the dead back." A memory began to leak back into Piccolo's psyche, but he shoves it away, despite what he'd told O'Neill about letting things out. Some memories weren't meant to be faced. "Yeah," O'Neill sighed. "I'm beginning to see that." Piccolo turned to leave again. "I'll see ya," he said, and left. Ford looked up as he walked past. "How is he?" Ford asked Piccolo half-grinned. "I think he's gonna be okay." He hoped like hell that he was right. * * * * * Lucas was back on duty for the first time in nearly two-and- a-half weeks. He looked across the bridge. It was quiet, orderly, and, nearly deserted, since he was fifteen minutes early. It was good to be home. He watched as the crew trickled in to begin the shift. Piccolo walked in, and flashed one of his cocky grins Lucas' way. Wanting to respond, Lucas realized that shouting across the bridge wasn't the best of ideas. Not only that, but it'd be a violation of protocal that he didn't feel like commiting. He settled for returning the grin. Henderson and Ford walked in together. Lucas saw how they were looking at each other, and decided not to disturb them. Then O'Neill arrived. He'd only been cleared for light duty, due to the wound he had received on "leave". No notice had been paid in O'Neill's file, and the matter was being kept under wraps. It still haunted the dark corners of Lucas' mind. Protocal be damned, Lucas was going to tlak to him. He walked over to where O'Neill was just taking his station. "Uh...Tim?" Lucas asked not knowing exactly what to say, or where to begin. "I--" O'Neill held up a hand. "Lucas, we can't talk about what happened. You know that." O'Neill lowered his voice. "But, just between you and me, I can't tell you how sorry I am about it. About everything." Lucas nodded. "I understand," he said sympathetically. O'Neill shook his head. "No. No, you don't, Lucas, and I pray that you never learn." Lucas didn't know how to respond to his friend's statement. It _was_ true that Lucas didn't-- couldn't-- understand the hell that O'Neill had gone through. Yet he desperately wanted to comfort O'Neill in some way. But the words weren't there. Instead, Lucas smiled sadly. "It's good to have you back, Tim." "Thanks, Lucas." Lucas went back to his station. He hoped that he'd at least helped, in some small way, to heal O'Neill's tortured spirit. Time, he supposed, would tell. * * * * * Section Seven was leaving. They wouldn't be missed. O'Neill was waiting in the corridor near the shuttle bay for Spiner to come by. When she finally did, O'Neill fell into step beside her. "I take it the mission was a success," he said without preamble. "Mm-hm," she said casually. "The brass was impressed that there were no casualties. I'll probably be promoted." O'Neill blinked, unable to believe what he'd just heard. "No casualties?!?" he repeated. "Commander Ford was injured! Lucas nearly died!" "Ah," she interrupted, raising a finger to halt his tirade. "But they didn't. That's the important thing, to the powers that be, at least." "And what about you?" Spiner sighed. "Lieutenant, we've been through this all ready. You know what's important to me. _Me_." O'Neill nodded sadly. He'd half-hoped that he'd dreamed their other encounter. "Then I envy you," he sighed. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "Really. From our last conversation on the topic, I'd have thought that you disagreed with me." "I do. Disagree with you." She raised an eyebrow, so he continued. "What I envy is how you can shut off your feelings. You don't have to worry about guilt, or depression. Everything is just part of the job for you." He looked down slightly. "I almost wish I could do that." She turned to look at him. "Almost?" O'Neill nodded. "Almost," he repeated. "But, in a way, I pity you, too." Spiner actually chuckled at that. "_You_ pity _me_? Shouldn't I be saying that?" O'Neill ignored the insult. "Yes, I pity you. You might never feel guilt or depression, but, you'll never feel love, or joy, either." He took a deep breath, steeling himself. "You were right when you said that caring about someone else can be painful. But it's just as painful to be alone in the world." *Something that I've only recently learned.* "Right," Spiner said derisively. "You'll never understand what it's like to be loved," he elaborated. "You _can't_. I doubt you can feel anything." In fact, he doubted that she was even human anymore. "And that's why I pity you." "Save your pity, Lieutenant," Spiner said coldly, "You'll need it more than I will." She quickened her pace, and headed towards the shuttle bay, without so much as a glance behind her. *Of course she never looks back,* he thought. *If she saw some of the chaos and destruction she's caused, she might actually _feel_ something.* A part of O'Neill couldn't understand how she could be so cold. But another part of him could. Copyright 1996 Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie ========================== EPILOGUE ================================== Disclaimer: The following story belongs to Rachel Brody and Melissa Beattie. Duplication is _strictly prohibited_ without their permission. For the sake of sanity, please refrain from posting or sending this to others without their permission. Send Questions, comments, and constructive critiscism to: bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu Introduction: This story takes place after "Weapons of War". The story is set up, to some degree, in "Fusion", "Kaos Theory", and "Cost of Living", which are also by Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie. "Revelations" (part IV) By Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie bi185@freenet.buffalo.edu ** * * * * * "`Step into my parlor,' said the spider to the fly." ** * * * * * Epilogue: It was over. The whole plan: of engineering a virus and finally having _real_ power, was dead aborning. Sydney Arkara was _not_ a happy woman. *At least you got rid of Schwartz,* she reminded herself. It was a small but well-needed comfort. That she would never have to deal with that bumbling twit again was the only bright spot in this whole mess. That, and the fact that she'd convince the President of whom should be selected as the new Defense Advisor. He would would see things her way. She was sure of it. "Sydney, dearest?" Arkara looked up, and saw that Bourne had walked in. "Yes, Alexander?" "Have you thought of anyone for the vacant post?" Bourne sat down. "Quite frankly, no one comes immediately to mind." It was the question that she'd been hoping he'd ask. "Actually, yes. An admiral. I've known him for years, and trust him implicitly." *With anything and everything that concerns overthrowing _you_, you stupid, blind fool.* "Really?" Bourne actually looked interested as he glanced at the holo she placed in the computer. The image of a tall, thin balding man sprang up. "Admiral Alan Edward Camhi," she informed the president. "He's well-respected, intelligent, loyal..." *...To _me_.* She trailed off, letting the man's record speak for itself. "As you can see, Alexander, he's been in our service since 2010, and has high marks in everything, from military strategy to the respect of his crew." And his crew not only respected him, but they also feared him. That was part of the reason their reports spoke of him only in the highest terms of flattery. They were afraid of what would happen should they indicate any sort of displeasure with his command. "Hmm," Bourne mused, mulling over her praise. "I suppose he could be very good in the post. But I want to meet him first." In other words, Bourne wanted to threaten the man a bit, and see how he took it. That was fine by Arkara: Camhi was a phenomenal actor, and would be able to convince Bourne of his "incompetence" with ease. The recent dealings with Deon and the UEO had convinced Arkara of one thing: once Camhi was in place, she would begin slowly constricting the tangled web she'd woven throughout the Macronesian government. She couldn't risk waiting much longer. According to Arkara's calender, Bourne's days were numbered. THE END ========================================================================== Copyright 1996 Rachel Brody & Melissa Beattie