Author's Note: The rescue begins and complications arise. A short visit to Alvarez, and Penelope tells all... sort of. Thanks to Hobbeth for betareading, and MathGirl and Bendarr for answering my question about the space station.

Special Note and Glossary: The information on the various diseases and their names came from the official site of the Centers for Disease Control at www(dot)cdc(dot)gov.

A disease that is categorized as a Biosafety Level Four (BSL-4) means it is very dangerous and can only be handled in special laboratories that are designed to contain it.

HFRS means Hemorraghic Fever with Renal Syndrome.

Ribavarin the the name of a currently available antiviral drug; tagavirin comes from my overactive imagination.

Now for those who reviewed the end of Masquerade and the current chapters of Overtures:

Claudette: Glad to see your reviews up there on Masquerade. I'll keep your suggestions in mind, especially the ones for chapter 27; thanks! And even though one of the Tracys got the swine, there's a bigger pig yet to skewer.

Math Girl: Thanks for the answer to my question, as you saw, I put it in chapter two. As far as Lady P. and her revelations to Mr. Southern are concerned, read on.

fellowriverrat: Glad to see you're catching up with life. Thanks for the compliments on Lou's reaction to the launch. I figured, how many people, even in 2068, had seen a spaceship launch up close and personal? Glad I made you giggle! You're right; we middle-aged folk (never say old) like a good snog and a lot more, too! ;)

pepsemaxke: Yes, she did it! As far as Virgil is concerned, Penny still has a lot to think about.

Disclaimer: I don't own the canon characters, I'm just writing about them. Please do not copy or hyperlink this fiction without my express written or verbal consent. This includes adding this fiction to C2 communities. I may be reached at my email of record. Any and all original characters, including Cindy Lou/Lucinda and her cats (especially the cats) are mine and may not be used without my express written consent.

Enjoy.

Tikatu


"This station is... big," Scott said as he pored over the plans that had been sent up.

"The, uh, side s-spokes are where the e-experiments are conducted and the, uh, most virulent of the biohazards are s-stored," Brains pointed out. "Wh-When we have a list of the, uh, current experiments, we'll have a b-better idea of what we're w-walking into."

Scott straightened up and gave the scientist a thoughtful look. "Do you think that something got loose and killed the researchers? Or maybe had incapacitated them to the point where they couldn't get to the comm and warn their employer?"

Brains shook his head. "I d-doubt it. I'll know better when we, uh, get the list, but even the most virulent of the viruses and bacteria take h-hours to compromise an i-immune system. Someone would have been able to, uh, contact E-Earth."

His colleague nodded. "Okay. Then what else could we be walking into? Any ideas?"

"A simple c-comm failure?" Brains posited. "The r-researchers so e-engrossed in their, uh, work that they forgot to call in?"

"I don't believe that second one," Scott said with a snort, "even if I have seen you miss meals on occasion."

"I n-never miss a meal," Brains countered. "Your, uh, grandmother sees to that."

"Oh?"

"Y-Yes. She brings a, uh, tray down and t-tells me I'd better eat it... o-or else."

Scott laughed. "That sounds like Grandma all right." He poked his finger at the schematics. "Back to the original problem. Is there anyone you can think of that would benefit from possibly... stealing the biohazards?"

"A terrorist attack?" Brains questioned. "I-I'd think it would be, uh, less than c-cost effective. It's not as if this is the o-only facility working w-with such diseases. It's just the s-safest... or so the, uh, company would h-have us believe."

"Hmm," the field commander mused. "Then we're most likely looking at something that damaged the station to the point that radio and computer contact went offline. A meteorite holing it or something of the sort."

"I would say that the o-odds f-favor that, uh, scenario," Brains concurred.

The internal speakers hummed into life. "Rho, I have the upload from the company," Alan's voice called. "Transferring to you."

"Th-Thank you, uh, Sigma," Brains replied. He picked up his PDA. "Hmm. A lot of, uh, BSL-4 agents here. Ebola was a g-given. They're looking for a faster, uh, diagnostic test. Same for L-Lassa fever, but they're also l-looking for a v-vaccine. Q f-fever is on the, uh, list, and so is R-Rift Valley fever. The Nipah and H-Hendra viruses are being further, uh, explored. The more general H-Hantavirus, too. And someone is w-working on HFRS as well. All these need better, uh, treatments. They are trying to find an, uh, alternative to r-ribavirin and tagavirin as the viruses are a-adapting to them." He looked up at Scott. "None of these w-would wipe out the entire p-population of researchers a-at once. Some are c-communicable to humans through livestock and their byproducts, and n-not necessarily person-to-person. Most are f-found only in d-developing countries, but with the, uh, current trade boom with Africa and S-South America, there has been a c-corresponding increase in c-cases worldwide."

Scott let out a low whistle. "That's a hefty load of some pretty deadly diseases. Did they send a personnel list?"

Brains accessed the next file on his PDA. "Y-Yes, Scott," he said, frowning as the information came up on the screen. "There are f-forty-two in all, i-including support crew. They, uh, also sent along a l-list of who's who." Shaking his head, he said, "I might n-not be, uh, able to assist with this r-rescue. There are three or four r-researchers here that I am, uh, acquainted with, and two I kn-know fairly well."

Brains's frown was echoed by Scott's. "Not even in full space suit?"

The engineer shook his head. "N-No. I would very l-likely have to, uh, talk. And my s-stutter would give me a-away."

"Okay. Let me get on the horn to base and get instructions. This may have just gotten a lot harder than we first anticipated."

xxxx

"International Rescue?" Southern echoed in a scoffing tone. "What would a... a lady like yourself be doing for an organization such as that?"

Lady Penelope gave him a sharp, cold look. Her voice dripped with icy contempt. "Mr. Southern. It is obvious to me that you think very little of my intelligence, and of any skills I might have outside of entertaining and rubbing elbows with the upper crust of British society. So it may surprise you to know that, after my higher education was complete, I was attached to the Federal Agents Bureau. I was one of their top agents."

Southern sat back, a frown of disbelief on his features. "Lady Penelope, I have the highest regard for your intelligence and skills. But you are correct about your choice of vocation. I am surprised, and not quite sure if I should believe you."

"If you do not believe me, Mr. Southern, then you lie when you speak of my intelligence and skills," she countered. "However, the point is moot. I am certain you have contacts within the Bureau who can confirm my employment there."

"I do," he replied curtly. Sitting back, he gazed at her speculatively. "Suppose I believe your claim. How did you come to be associated with International Rescue?"

"I shall not explain the whys and wherefores of my employment with them. Nor shall I continue to speak to you of them without your word of honor, your solemn promise, that our conversation goes no further," Penelope retorted haughtily. "You do owe them, Mr. Southern."

For a long, tense period there was nothing to be heard but the birds singing and the occasional hum of an insect. Then Southern said softly, "I suppose I do 'owe' them, as you have put it." He raised his voice and looked her in the eye frankly. "All right, Lady Penelope, you have my solemn word of honor, my promise, that what conversation passes between us today stays between us, especially in regards to International Rescue."

Penelope relaxed just a touch, and gave him a small smile. "Before I accept that promise, there is one thing I must do."

"And what is that?"

"I must... frisk you."

"Frisk me?" Southern said, sounding outraged. "I just gave you my word..."

"I know," she said as she stood and indicated that he should stand, too. "But if there is one thing I have learned, it is that listening devices can be found in the strangest of places."

She made him remove his jacket, and hang it on a branch on the other side of the tree from where they were sitting. His belt followed, and his shoes were minutely examined. She patted him down thoroughly and made him turn out his trouser pockets, moving the contents to the pockets of his jacket. Fortunately, he had chosen to wear a polo shirt; otherwise, as she told him, she would have made him remove his shirt as well. "One cannot trust shirt buttons these days," she had said as she closely examined the few he had. He understood her caution, and the fact that she was au courant with the latest surveillance technology went a long way to substantiate her claim that she was once a spy, as he had been. He did have a transmission device, one of the buttons on his jacket, but the range was limited and with the tree between them and the coat, he doubted he would get any recording.

"Are you satisfied?" he asked when she had completed her search.

"Yes, I believe I am," she said, her voice a tad shaky. It had been an interesting search to her mind. Her hands had smoothed over his chest and back, feeling the muscles beneath the cloth, then down his legs. She had felt her face flushing a bit, and a warmth within her that she recognized from past encounters, the same warmth that she had often felt watching Jeff beside the pool, wearing swim trunks and an open Hawaiian shirt. The thought of Jeff brought forth their last conversation and she stopped suddenly, removing her hands and shoving aside the memory just as abruptly. "Please, sit down."

They both sat, and Penelope took two deep breaths to calm herself. Southern looked at her with a puzzled expression. Then her gaze met his, and she said, "Now, where shall we begin?"

"Please tell me how Mr. Riordan's blood ended up on his Excellency's beach," he asked.

xxxx

Alvarez took a sip of his brandy and frowned. He dropped his data pad to the small end table in the sitting room of his personal suite. He found the house unnervingly large and empty, and so confined his activities to the suite, the office, and the dining room. He had no desire to look into the empty bedrooms, still filled with clothes and paraphernalia from the real Alvarez's children. Nor did he go into the other bedroom attached to the sitting room. Engracia's things were still in there and he did not want to be reminded of her demise.

A vision of that beautiful lady, kneeling down next to her husband as he pled and begged for her life and the lives of his children, her head bowed, long, raven-dark hair fallen forward to hide the bruising she had endured at his own hands. He had enjoyed her lovely body, and then sent her off to certain death... he pushed the thoughts away. Such musings reminded him that, although he wore the face of the man, he was not really Carlos Esteban Alvarez. Such introspection is dangerous. I must submerge my own personality, my own being, and believe myself to be him, without reserve, he thought savagely. And I cannot afford a misstep. Too many dangerous people know I am not who I claim to be and I do not want anyone else to know. Not until I have reached my goal. Then, it will not matter.

He picked up the pad again, sipping more brandy. The daily news reports were there, downloaded by Fernando, who had declined to share the evening meal with him. There was one in particular that Ramirez had highlighted. It was luridly titled, "Gun From Double Murder Found!" The story went on to tell how the gun, owned by the late James Clayton Franks, had been found beside Franks's body at the scene of a kidnapping. It had been identified as the weapon used in the murder of Olivia Murphy and Pedro Luis Ortega some weeks past. "Franks was shot in the head at close range by as many as four bullets," Alvarez read in a murmur. "The police department of Portland, Maine is working together with both Unity City police and Interpol to discover the identity of the killer."

Laying aside the pad again, he mused, The kidnapping victim has not been named, but I would wager it was the Myles woman. If so, International Rescue may have been involved. A fine headline that would be for the website... if those Erdman dolts ever get it running again! Another incursion just today, and this one from within. They are scanning for the "eggs" the termite and virus laid, but if her hacker was as thorough as before, they will not find them. He sipped the fine brandy again, put the snifter down on top of the data pad, then sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers. So, Franks is dead, and with him goes any hope of gaining the data that Interpol collected. There also goes any hope of snaring the Myles woman. Tracy will see to her safety; she is probably on that damned island of his and out of my reach. No matter. My visit to the security subcommittee should stir up some hornets to sting Tracy's hide and that of his precious rescue organization. And I will begin to court that lovely secretary of the Vice President's. She will fit into my plans nicely.

He rose to stretch, and in doing so, knocked the data pad and the brandy snifter to the floor. The data pad skittered across the smooth floor. The glass shattered, what little bit of wine that remained smearing across the hardwood. He looked down on it, frowning. Then he crossed to the household intercom and activated it. "Diego."

It took a moment, but a man's voice returned. "Si, your Excellency?"

"Please come to my sitting room. There has been a small... accident."

xxxx

Jeff was talking strategy with Scott when Lou returned. He nodded at her, and she returned the greeting, sitting in a chair some distance from Jeff's desk. Kyrano, who had brought in coffee, poured her a cup, offering cream and sugar, both of which she took.

"I still don't like it, Alpha. There's no telling what you're going to be walking into," Jeff said sternly. "I want you and Sigma in full suits and armed. If there's no major problem, fine. You can always remove the suits. But once you're exposed to their atmosphere, there's no going back."

"What's the matter?" Lou whispered to Kyrano.

"Mr. Brains cannot go aboard the space station," the retainer murmured back quietly. "There are people there he knows. So Mr. Alan and Mr. Scott are planning on boarding the place. Right now, Mr. Alan is doing a slow reconnaissance flight around the station. Mr. John has not been able to get through to the people on board."

"Thanks, Kyrano," Lou whispered again. She raised her cup to him and he nodded.

Indeed, Alan had taken Thunderbird Three around the station twice, checking out the spokes that stuck out so awkwardly from the sides, and was in the process of going around it from along the axis, looking for holes or any indications of meteor damage.

"I still don't see anything wrong with the structure of the thing," the pilot explained. "No signs of holing, no debris, nothing." He looked at his father through the portrait. "Commander, the only way we're going to find out what's wrong is to board her."

"F-A-B, Thunderbird Three. You have the go ahead. But as I've said, full suits and carry your ordnance. That is a direct order!"

Scott frowned, then reluctantly nodded. "F-A-B."

Alan had a less belligerent outlook. "F-A-B, Commander. Coming into docking position with the second level pylon."

There were a few tense moments as Alan guided the red rocket into position, Scott helping him with sensor readings so they could make as perfect a link with the space station as possible. There was some discussion amongst the three in the control room about the airlock and the fact that no one had activated it from the other end. "Epsilon? We'll need an access code." Alan finally said, putting on his space suit. "There's still no response to our hails. Looks like we may have to do an EVA."

"I'm on it," John replied. He turned to speak into his microphone, telling the technicians in Vancouver, who had stayed late at work for this emergency, what was needed. Jeff muted the talkback and stretched, rubbing the back of his neck.

Lou got up and approached the desk, bringing her coffee along. "How are things going?" she asked quietly.

"Frustratingly," Jeff answered. "We have no knowledge of what's going on inside. Just conjecture. And I hate sending the boys in without proper intelligence."

"I can understand that," she replied. She indicated the data pads that Jeff had strewn about his desk. "May I?"

"Go ahead," he said with a nod. She picked one up and began perusing it, leaning up against the desk, cup of coffee in the opposite hand. Virgil came in, wiping his hands on a towel. He had gone down to give Kenny and Gordon a hand with the Rolls Royce. They had gotten to the point where they were beginning to repaint the car, using the chameleon paint, and Virgil seemed to have a knack with the stuff that no one else did.

"How are things going here?" he asked. Jeff shot him a look, which he interpreted immediately. "That bad, huh?"

Just then John came back to the screen, and Jeff raised the volume on the conversation once again. "Thunderbird Three and base from Thunderbird Five. The techs have to find one of the project's higher ups to get the access code."

"More waiting," Jeff groused. He turned his attention back to John and spoke to him directly, "Epsilon, apprise me when they come back with that code."

"F-A-B, base."

"So, how are the cats?" Jeff asked, glancing over at Lou.

She looked up from the pad she was scrolling through. "Well, Midnight had joined Moofums in the ceiling, Snowball had hidden in the closet behind the litter boxes and poor Spot had crammed herself in between the back of the toilet and the wall. I managed to lure them all out with treats and spent some time calming each of them down." She directed her gaze toward the balcony outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. "I have no idea how they'll react when Thunderbird Three comes back."

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Were you able to replace the ceiling tiles?"

"Yes. I called to the house and Kyrano told me where I could find a stepladder in the Round House. The tile directly over the cat tree will have to be fastened down somehow so we don't have a repeat of today's antics."

"I'll give it some thought," Jeff replied distractedly. John was picking up his microphone again, and Jeff turned the volume up once more.

"Thunderbird Three and base from Thunderbird Five. We have the access code. I'm transmitting it to Three right now."

"F-A-B, Thunderbird, uh, Five," Brains said. "Passing it along to S-Sigma."

"Base and Thunderbird Five from Sigma," Alan's voice sounded breathy and flat at the same time. "Handing control of Three to Rho as of now. Alpha and I are in the airlock and preparing to EVA."

"F-A-B, Sigma, Alpha. Be careful."

"Alpha, Sigma? Are you carrying ordnance?" Lou suddenly said, peering up at the portraits with a concerned frown on her face.

There was a moment of quiet at her question. Then Jeff cut in, "Alpha, Sigma, are you carrying ordnance?'

"Oh, F-A-B, base," Alan replied hurriedly. "Sorry about that, base. Didn't quite know how to answer... her."

"Noted, Sigma." Jeff turned back to Lou, who was scanning the personnel list carefully. "Mind telling us why you asked the question?"

She highlighted a name and handed the pad to Jeff. "I'm not completely sure, but I think I know this member of the support team, Jake Harris. If he's who I believe he is, he's there under false pretenses. I met him several years ago when I was undercover and crossed paths with a Vancouver narcotics cop. Harris was a chemist at the time, a very good one, and he was stealing materials and using the company labs on occasion to make illegal drugs. He wasn't who I was after, so I let the narcs have him. Still, if he's there on the station, he's certainly not there for his health, or the health of other people. You can consider him dangerous if cornered."

"F-A-B," Alan replied from inside his space suit. "Commencing EVA, now."

"Epsilon, can you give us a visual?" Jeff asked.

"F-A-B, Commander."

John's portrait was replaced by a live shot, taken from the satellite that John had been using, showing two white suited figures moving slowly across the void from Thunderbird Three's air lock to the pylon next to the space craft. Tension mounted on the base as they reached out, taking hold of handles made for the purpose. One of the figures moved in closer. Then something pushed them both backwards. "Escaping air," Jeff muttered. "The airlock wasn't drained last time they used it." Then the figures disappeared within the strut.

"Cycling airlock now," Scott said. The tension eased a bit at his words, then dropped even more as Alan came back with, "We're in! Gravity, point nine-oh G. Atmosphere present."

"Open comm at all times, boys," Jeff reminded them.

"F-A-B, base." "F-A-B, Commander."

Alan's face furrowed behind his helmet. "Do you feel a... shaking, Alpha?"

Scott stopped and stood still. "Yeah, I do. In my boots. It's continuous and feels rhythmic, like somebody's got a boom box on loud with the bass too high."

"Maybe we've crashed a party," Alan quipped.

Scott groaned, and shook his head inside his helmet. "We're proceeding down this pylon. Nothing out of the ordinary. There are several stacks of opened and emptied tote boxes along one side, and a couple of biohazard containers that look like they are full. When did they last have a supply run?"

After a moment, John's voice cut in. "Last week," he said, consulting his data pad. "So they should be fine for foodstuffs and replacement parts, including those for their communications system."

"Hmm. Then equipment malfunction is pretty much ruled out," Alan said. "I'm sure if something burned out on their communication equipment that there'd be at least one person available to fix it."

"A s-safe assumption, S-Sigma," Brains said. "And if there, uh, wasn't, we can f-fix it for them."

"That pounding is getting stronger the farther we move in," Scott observed. "Look, Sigma. There's the emergency airlock. I hope the same access number will work on it."

"It won't," John said with a sigh. "But I have the code for that lock, too." He gave it to the boarding party, and Scott clumsily entered it on the keypad. The airlock door swooshed open, barely heard by the suited astronauts.

They entered the airlock, closing the door behind him, then opened the inner one without running the decontamination cycle. The pounding was stronger now, and Scott pointed that out. "Rho? What could cause such a shaking?"

"A f-fault in the backup, uh, power generator?" Brains suggested tentatively. "But that would b-be more like, uh, a thrumming."

"We're moving into the interior corridor," Alan explained. The interior of the central cylinder was set up rather like a cored pineapple. Most of the living quarters were arranged around the outside of the second level while more general public areas, such as kitchen/dining facilities, sickbay, and entertainment center were found in the core of that story. The control room was on the upper floor. The power and gravity generators were found on the lowest level, as well as storage rooms and the emergency docking airlock. There were two labs in each spoke; the outer one was usually kept in microgravity and the inner one had a variable gravity control. The cylinder's gravity was set at as close to 1G as possible to make the scientists comfortable and make the transition back to Earth easier on them.

"Here's a door and it's locked," Scott said. "Any ideas on how we get in?"

"I was given the access code for this one, too," John answered. Scott punched in the numbers as John read them off, and the door slid aside.

"Holy...," Alan breathed after a moment.

"Sigma! Report!" Jeff's voice cracked across the airwaves.

"Looks like I was right. We are crashing a party."

That's what it looked like to Alan's experienced eye. About a dozen people in various stages of undress were dancing to music that was being piped over the internal intercom, the words rendered nearly unintelligible due to the volume and the underlying bass beat. A few couples, both opposite and same sex, could be seen on either side of the circular corridor, entwined in each other's arms, kissing, groping, and in some cases, going a lot farther.

Scott let out a low whistle. "This isn't a party. It's an orgy." He tapped Alan's arm. "Let's go. This way."

The two men moved down the corridor, keeping as close to the walls as they could, hoping to go unnoticed in the general noise and activity. Scott had chosen the route that looked least occupied by lovers, and they only had to step around one couple who were doing things that made both men's faces flush with embarrassment.

Back in the lounge, the lack of communication didn't worry Jeff; even through the helmets he could discern the pounding beat. "Sigma from base," he called. "Does this... orgy... seem to include everyone?"

"Uhhh, can't tell, Commander," Alan replied, his voice hinting at the strain this was putting on him. "Haven't made a, uh, head count."

"It doesn't, Commander!" Scott was suddenly excited. "Look over there, Sigma!"

Alan looked down the corridor. They had come upon the sickbay, which was situated within the core on that side, and three or four faces were pressed up against the clear windows in and around the curved double doors. As Scott and Alan approached, they noticed that two or three of the people were speaking to them. "Base from Alpha. There are some people holed up in the sickbay and they're trying to tell us something. I'm going to see if I can communicate with them using sign language." Scott began to sign, "What's going on here?" his movements and hand motions hampered by the bulky suit.

One of the people within, a dark skinned woman with long straight hair, shook her head. "I don't think they're familiar with sign language," Scott deduced. The woman looked behind her, then someone handed her a data pad. She held it up to the window. Scott leaned in to read what was written on it in large bold letters.

"Good to see you. We're locked in," he read. "Base and Thunderbirds Three and Five. There are people locked in the sickbay. They are communicating via data pad. I'm sending Sigma back to get one of ours so we can communicate."

"We'll need a laser cutter, too, Alpha," Alan said, pointing at the lock. It was burned and melted, as if someone had intentionally destroyed it to keep those inside from getting out.

"Go, then," Scott said. "Alpha to Rho. Have a laser cutter and a data pad ready for Sigma. He's coming back for them. I'm going up to the control area to see what I can do about the docking pylon."

"F-A-B," came Brains's voice. "Getting things r-ready as we, uh, speak."

Scott tapped on the glass and made motions to show that Alan was going to go back the way that they had come, and that he was going upwards. The woman took the data pad away from the windows and put something else on the screen. "We'll wait here. Hurry," Scott read. He made a fist and signaled as if tapping a door. "Hopefully they at least know that sign."

It seemed as if they did, because the woman inside smiled and nodded. Scott gave her a thumbs up and went off to find the lift to the top level, while Alan retraced his steps to the docking arm.

xxxx

"So, you were undercover, establishing where the thief was, and your cover was unexpectedly blown?" Southern asked, seeking clarification.

"Yes," Penelope said with a sigh. "I was recognized, rendered unconscious, and imprisoned."

"Why did this Franks bring the disk to his Excellency?" he wanted to know.

Penelope chose her words carefully. "There was a rumor, an unconfirmed one, that his Excellency needed the information on the disk to... blackmail IR. That he wanted to create a similar rescue unit to wield as a political club over those countries that were... uncooperative. But in order to do this, he would have to remove the competition as it were. Hence, the blackmail."

Southern nodded. "I see. And Mr. Riordan?"

"Part of my backup team," Penelope said. "When it became clear that my real identity had been discovered, they were to move in and extract me from the situation." This disclosure process had been difficult. She didn't want to compromise Jeff's old friend or her former position and, of course, she was trying hard to keep Jeff and the boys out of it. She also felt it was safer if she kept her discovery of the minister's true identity a secret, and also the name of the fifth member of the party: Brigitte.

"What exactly happened to Mr. Riordan?" he queried. He could tell she wasn't coming clean about everything, but then, after her revelation about who her employer was, he didn't expect her to. There were holes he'd like to fill, such as where did Franks get the disk of information on IR and what happened to it, but he suspected she'd dance around the subject. Right now, getting the story on the bloodstain would have to be enough. Perhaps he could pry some more from her later.

"Mr. Riordan's job was to create a diversion, while other members of the backup team freed me. He did so. We were all to rendezvous at the beach, and he was last to arrive. He was running for our conveyance when Franks stepped out of the shadows and shot him. The bullet went through Mr. Riordan's thigh, clipping the femoral artery. Despite our best efforts, he... he bled to death before we could get him to hospital."

"How did you get him to hospital?" he asked. "I heard that Thunderbird Two was involved."

She nodded once. "Yes, it was." She paused, then continued. "When we got to hospital, we created the story about the pirates."

"Ah, I see," Southern said, nodding. "Pin it on someone who would be expected to act that way and who couldn't come forward to deny the allegations."

"Something like that," she said. Her gaze had turned away from him and she was looking far off into the distance.

He cleared his throat. "Thank you for telling me, Lady Penelope. I assure you, it will go no further." When she didn't respond, he asked, "Are you all right?"

The question jolted her from her reverie, and she turned to him again. "What did you say?"

"I asked if you were all right," he repeated.

She shook her head slowly. "No, Mr. Southern. I am not all right. I... I lost an operative; a colleague. He virtually died in my arms. That has never happened to me before and... it has shaken me to the core. It has made me question my position, my very outlook on what I do. And it has forced me to see some facets of myself that I am not pleased with. I am still trying to decide what to do about my future and that, sir, is why I am here. To think, and to make a decision." She looked away again, and they fell silent.

The quiet between them was not tense this time; then Southern, daring greatly, reached out and took her hand. She turned back to him, startled, and he put her hand between his two, a gesture meant to comfort. His voice raspy, he began, "I know how you feel." He cleared his throat and continued. "I lost a partner, once. It was... shattering. I kept thinking, 'What could have I done to prevent it? How could I have stopped it?' and 'Why her and not me?' She had a family, you see. Husband and children. All left behind. I couldn't look into her husband's eyes when he thanked me for being such a fine partner." He snorted. "Fine partner! If I had been half the partner he thought me to be, she would still be alive." Taking in a deep breath, he let it out slowly. "It ate me up for a long, long time. Made me want to hand in my walking papers, quit the bureau. In the end, I stayed. But I never had another partner. It was too bloody hard."

Penelope swallowed. "I am so very sorry for your loss," she said quietly. "And thank you for sharing your experience." Looking around, she observed, "It is getting dark. We should return to the ranch."

"Yes, we should."

They rose to their feet, and Southern retrieved the various articles of clothing that were draped over the tree branch. Then he shook out the blanket they had used and put it in Penelope's saddlebag. He released Valley Mist's reins, handing them to her rider, then untethered Midnight Ranger's, climbing aboard the horse's back. Side by side, the two rode slowly, and in silence, back to the ranch.

xxxx

Scott got to the control room on the top level of the cylinder. There were more living quarters here; larger ones for the project directors lined one outer edge of the level. The music was just as loud, and the scene was similar to the one below. People dancing, copulating, totally uninhibited. A woman, half undressed, ran past him, shrieking with delight as she was chased by a man who actually bumped into him and continued on, unheeding. Scott shook his head slowly and made his way to the control room.

This room took up two thirds of the other half of the level. Scott was surprised when the doors opened to his touch, and he entered, looking around carefully as he did so. The room seemed deserted, so he walked along the control panels, looking for the console that would allow Thunderbird Three to dock with the station and save Alan another space walk. He found it at last, and called out, "Thunderbird Three and Sigma from Alpha. I am initiating docking sequence."

"F-A-B, Alpha," Alan's voice came back.

"F-F-F-A-B," Brains answered. "Equipment r-ready."

There was a vid screen, and Scott activated it, pleased to see the docking pylon reach out slowly toward Thunderbird Three. He called into his communicator, "Thunderbird Five from Alpha. I have an external visual of the docking pylon. Will send you the... damn. The communications panel is offline."

"As w-we suspected, Alpha," Brains reminded him. "Status on d-docking sequence?"

Scott turned his attention back to the appropriate panel. "Docking sequence complete..." a light went from yellow to green, "...now."

"Cycling station airlock," Alan replied. "Crossing over to Thunderbird Three. I'll be back with you in a few, Alpha."

"F-A-B, Sigma. I'm going to take a look at the communications panel." Without waiting for a response, Scott moved along the bank of consoles until he came to the one that handled communications. "There's some kind of recording--a disk--in the station-wide intercom," he stated. After a quick perusal of the controls, he pressed a button and the incessant boom, boom, boom stopped abruptly. Scott grinned and said, "So much for the rave." He frowned as he turned to the controls for incoming and outgoing transmissions. "There's no power at all to the main board," he observed. He began to kneel down. "I'll have to get under the console to see..."

His speech was cut off by a hand grabbing his space suit by the shoulder, hauling him upright, and shoving him chest down against the control board. He turned as quickly as the bulky suit would let him and found himself face to face with a semi-automatic pistol. "Uh, base? I think we have a problem."