Disclaimer: The Thunderbirds are owned by their creators and various other studios, producers and other such people. The fiction is free, so it belongs to the fans.
Authors Notes: Yes, I know. I realise just how long it has been since an update, and I apologise humbly. I have spent the last few weeks without access to a modem, which was annoying. Server switch over, you know. All the usual delays. But more than that, I've battled writers block for the last month. In three weeks, I'd written a page and a half. It was terrible! So, this chapter a little shorter than the others - I shoved in all the salient plot points, and it's a little bit briefer than it probably should be, but the important thing is I got over the hump, so the next chapter could come quicker and in better detail.
Warm and heartfelt thanks to my reviewers, and humble and sheepish thanks for anyone whose actually waited this long (sorry, sorry, sorry).
Oh, and Tiamut pointed out a minor plot error with regards to Wisconsin's lack of backwaters. Unfortunately I don't live in America so my knowledge of American geography is limited to what Hollywood has shown me. And we all know how accurate they are, right? (grin) I apologise for any such mistakes in advance – pure ignorance, plain and simple.
Of course, this is set in 2067-ish. Maybe we could just say they moved the lakes of Minnesota to Wisconsin for some botched environmental planning (snicker).
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Part IX – All Sides of the Coin
In which there is – Drop Off – Behind the Mask – Mail Call - All Sides of the Coin – the Second Courts – On the Wire – Interrogation and Accusations – the Prison Below – Thinking and Feeling – Taking Control – Sanctuary – Found? – Off the Train – Lost and Found – PRA Preternatural Problems – Matters of Elimination
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The small engine plane landed neatly on the dirt field, curving to the left slightly at the as it hit the ground to avoid scything the wire fence. The buzz of the engines was loud in the flat fields of whispering wheat, but there was no one to hear it – there was no one for miles around out in these reclusive sticks.
Well, almost no one. Grandma Tracy strode up to the fallow field, an indomitable figure in an old farm dress and apron, and sensible rubber boots. She had blankets over her shoulder. She clambered over the fence instead of going round to the gate, demonstrating a wiry fitness that belied her age.
"It's good to see you, Mr Randall, even if you are a little late," Grandma spoke to the bulky figure climbing out of the cockpit.
"Pleasure to see you again, ma'am," Randall gave her a wary salute. There was something very penetrating about Mrs Tracy, and quality he had hitherto found only in boot camp sergeants. The only difference between them and the old woman is that whereas they did as part of their job, she did it because it was bed rock of her personality. He'd like to introduce her to some of his choicer sergeants one day, except that it might cause some sort of explosion.
"Well, come on, don't let's hang about," Grandma Tracy scolded gently. She moved around to the passenger door and yanked it open, revealing on scientist and his sleeping son. "Wrap him up in this now, it's nippy here at night," she instructed the slightly bemused scientist, handing over the woollen blanket.
She turned back to Randall, who hovered near the cockpit door. "I know you won't be sticking around, Mr Randall, so I don't suggest we waste time on pleasantries. You'd better be off. Protect my boys, Mr Randall. All of them."
A sudden spasm twitched at her mouth, and for one breath of an instant a frightened old woman looked out from Grandma Tracy's solid as rock persona. It was there and gone before you could really see it, but it was on par with seeing a great General break down and cry at the troops charged. Randall, never the most touchy feely of people, reached out to give her a brief, sincere bear hug. "I'll look out for them, Mrs Tracy. That's a promise."
"No need to get fresh, Mr Randall, you're not my type," Grandma replied one the hug was over. Randall grinned. That was the old battleaxe he knew.
She gave him a farewell wave, and turned back to the lanky scientist, who was out of the plane now and looking rather out of place in the rural setting.
"You come with me, sonny," Grandma lead the scientist to the gate. "We'll fix you up at the farm house."
She lead them back to her humble wood home, where two beds had been made up and food had been on the stove for the last hour.
That Randall. Always running late.
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Damien Halmen liked working the night shift. It was quiet and slow, a good time for driving the bulky mail truck without the stress of gridlock. The midnight hour, the simple repetition of hauling express parcels to their correct locations, signing off, hitting the road again was conductive to deep thought about all the meaningful things in his life – his beautiful wife and their four decades of happy marriage, his grown up children, his music boxes which he carefully and quietly built in his spare time. His was a humble, contented life, doing a job he loved.
He pulled into the delivery area of the next address, and shut off the engine of his van. Levering his spry frame out of the car was more difficult than it used to be, he sighed to himself, as he made his way around to the back.
He didn't bother looking around. In this neighbourhood, why bother? Security was so good here; there weren't any muggers or street gangs. That's what made the rest of the night so horrible.
Damien suddenly found himself plastered against the side of the van, cold metal rivets biting into his cheek as the group, outfitted in black, pounced on him from the shadows of the pillars and the hedges around the building, yelling orders screaming at Damien to freeze and keep his hands up. Terrified, the old man froze up. "Wh-what's goin' on here…here, you stay outta there!" He couldn't see anything except his the up close red of his company's logo, but he heard them wrench the creaky doors open.
"Shut up!" menaced a voice by his ear.
"It's here, we got it sir!"
Damien twisted in the hands holding him, freeing one eye to see what they were holding. He recognised the package – he didn't often get packages going straight to this address. Around him the PRA agents were scanning and prodding the package with bomb detection devices.
Damien took a deep breath, going very red in the face. "If y'all wanted it so bad, you could've waited for me to get it out for ya!"
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"Welcome, brothers and sisters, and what a fine morning greets us today! This is an historic day, and I can't tell you how impressed I am by your devotion, that you would show up so early and on such sort notice. Praise be to you all, and praise be to God!"
Scott focused on breathing as the chorus of 'Amens' washed over him. Surreptitiously, he tested his bonds. Hmmm, handcuffs, plastic ties and rope. And….were those wires? Oh perfect, they had him wired to something.
He was on a stage in a hall, large and vaulting, almost a warehouse if not for the plaster and panelling. There was cheap aluminium chairs rowed all the way back to the painted doors, flanked by trestle tables. A coffee and snack table. The whole place had an almost domestic air to it, a community feel. It felt like the kind of place where neighbourhood watches and block associations met. The people were dressed ordinary – everyday work clothes. Casual jeans on teenagers, bright colours on little kids, who played through aisles. If it wasn't for the bunch in black robes, it would have been normal.
You're normal people sitting there chatting about your kids schools, the weekend church picnic, the state of the economy. There's a man tied and wired to a chair in front of you and, with any certainty, he's probably not the healthiest sight. You stand there and look at me. What are you really thinking?
Scott's thoughts were becoming almost philosophical in his exhausted, injured state. The monologue disappeared in a wave of dizziness, and Scott refocused on the coffee machine. God, he needed coffee.
Scott was getting a tired, sinking feeling in the base of his stomach. Kidnapped by redneck idiots drunk on beer and hatred was bad enough, but at least they were irrational and biased enough to make mistakes. These people had built a rational, practical structure around their prejudice. They'd turned it into a system. They had rules.
They'd gotten the robes almost perfect. Long and black, simple lines with no hoods or hats – almost perfect replicas of the robes used by Second Courts over sixty years ago. It was like looking at a living museum.
The psychic gene was discovered and proven almost a century ago and more carriers than ever had their gifts become active, not regressive. Three generations later, and people still weren't sure why it had happened. Some scientists had theorised that the increased exposure to radiation over the last century were slowly mutating human genes. Others said that maybe the path of human evolution had finally hit some sort of biological upgrade. Others still said the human race was just sitting on a timer – something in our systems had finally decided it was time for these gifts to appear, like hectare size ant nests living and breeding quietly underground, until they erupted onto the surface and began eating everything in sight in accordance with some internal imperative. Who knew? People studied it, theorised about it, based years of research on it, but no one had ever gotten close to the truth of it.
People hadn't really known how to deal with it either, even then. There were a whole range of crimes only available to psychics and prisons hadn't been built to hold them. The judiciary, desperate to have the law catch up, had had to throw together a half-baked new authority focused entirely on the psychic problem. It hadn't lasted very long at all, and it wasn't supposed to. It had been a cobbled together authority meant to precursor the PRA while all the mess was sorted out.
And, contrary to the picture being parodied on the stage before Scott, it hadn't been a biased or unjust court. Most of the people on it, judges, lawyers, scientists and psychologists, had been basically decent and professional, and had been handling something completely new to them, and in some ways somewhat outside their realm of understanding. In the midst of all that, it was hard to render a fair judgement, and a lot of fresh new psychics had ended up institutionalised unfairly, but, to be fair, they had been instrumental in cracking down on some fresh new psychic deviants. Scott wasn't blinded by any light. He knew the psychics weren't paragons of virtue any more than regular folk were rife with hatreds.
There were some who thought the Second Court should have been continued – new people needed new laws. Harder laws. Different judgements. Stranger punishments. It's hard to lock up people who could literally live inside their own heads. These people clearly thought so.
No. The tall man with the long face, puffed out cheeks and unpleasant complexion believed it. The guys in the robes believed it. Even the thugs standing on either side of Scott might have believed, but that's not what they were being paid for. Everyone else was just along for the ride.
"You see this face up here on the stage before me," that man acknowledged Scott's presence for the first time. "The face of the enemy. This man is the reason why good people such as you are called out in the early morn, the reason why we live in fear and danger. There are no words to describe the depth of his family's crimes, their use and abuse of unholy powers to their own ends. You all know of what I speak. You work hard, eke out a living, try to live decent while corrupt deceivers such as this use their unfair advantage to gain rich house and expensive cars, to take over businesses and force honest people out of earned employment – look at him! His father and his cronies have been using these unnatural means to their advantage for years. He goes to the best schools and gets the best choices, where your kids get surplus equipment and hand-me-downs! Are you going to stand for this? Are you going to let this be?"
There had been a building, righteous murmur that ended in a triumphant 'No!' from the crowd. Scott knew a brainless frenzy when he saw one. He blanked his features and showed no sign that he even heard them yelling.
"I say we must take a stand! I realise it might seem unorthodox to have him here, to bring him under the control of you good citizens instead of the authorities. It may even make you uncomfortable, the idea that you must take control of the law for yourself."
"What if they do, Father Stewart?" asked one of aides in artificial impulsiveness.
"They must not be ashamed! Of course not! That is merely the decent, honest reaction to have. But also!" the robed man now labelled as Father Stewart shook a finger at the enraptured audience. "Also! You must know the truth! And the truth is terrible and bitter, ladies and gentlemen. The authorities have done us a great wrong! They are no longer able to protect normal, decent folk from freaks like this! They are snaffled and blinkered by the money hungry government who would rather make oil shares than look after its own! So it is left to us, ladies and gentlemen, me and you – ordinary, educated and loyal communities to look after our own! Do you think we should let this state of affairs continue?"
"No!"
"Are we responsible for taking control of our own lives?"
"Yes!"
"Then let's show them we can bring justice to the decent and the righteous! He will be judged fairly and punished to fit his crimes!"
He swept up to Scott, all righteous, pompous fury. "Let the accused speak his name."
Scott didn't even twitch. He stared straight ahead, expressionless. He wasn't going to participate in this idiotic farce.
Inwardly, his mind was churning away with thoughts. This guy, Father Stewart, didn't come off as ordained. He probably wasn't – like many men like him he used the spectre of religious authority to cow and impress. He was probably mediocre in real life – he liked controlling and organising but was never in a position to do so. He took power wherever he could leech it.
God, his head hurt.
"He has
no respect for justice, as you can see. No sense of decency!"
Father Stewart bellowed out his accusations to the angry mutter of
the group. Converts, all of them.
The shock was sudden and
unexpected, and Scott arched against his bonds as the electrical
current seared across him muscles. It stopped almost immediately, but
Scott heart was hammering and his muscles spasmed. He gasped for air.
"You will answer the question, boy!"
The hell with it. They probably already knew anyway. "Scott Tracy," he gritted.
"Hear that infamous name! You all know chapter and verse of his father's crimes. His son follows the same path. Jeff Tracy, the twisted, corrupted tyrant who rose walking on the backs of normal men, crushing them, destroying lives and dreams in his search for money and power! If ever you need an example of perversity and power-madness, of abuse of the common man, of unholy powers used to break honest men and corrupt others, you need only go as far as Jeff Tracy! Am I right? We've all seen it! We've seen how he rose to his place using his unfair advantage, casting down better people in his path! Am I right?"
Over the applause and enthusiastic 'yes's', Scott boiled slightly. That's my father you're talking about you bigoted bastard, Scott hissed to him mentally. A man who rose against great adversity on sheer talent and force of personality. Who kept his integrity, even in the twisting paths of corporate America. His Dad. These people didn't know him from a hole in the ground.
The crowd was really in frenzy now, on their feet, shaking their fists shouting and clapping and generally making a din. Father Stewart raised his arms for calm. The crowd settled obediently.
"Now, now, ladies and gentlemen, let us be sober and clear-minded as we judge. Their must be order and justice, otherwise there is nothing. Passion cannot rule intelligence, vulgar emotion to steal rationality. Otherwise we are no better than those poor, unnatural fools."
First we're to be hanged, and then pitied, Scott mused to himself. Make up your minds, people.
"The accused will answer for his crimes," Father Stewart spun on the trussed up Scott, who had very carefully kept his head bent to the floor while his heart slowed down. "Scott Tracy, you stand accused of the corruption and destruction of normal people's lives, the stealing of the food from their mouths, the clothes from their back. You are accused of using your unnatural talents to smooth you way in life, against the honest endurance of ordinary people. Do you deny it, or own it?"
Scott didn't reply.
The shock ripped through his nerves once more.
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When Virgil awoke, his head was still pounding and his temples were still being squeezed in a vice. The pain started from the back of his neck, where it was a tight wound knot of pure agony, tendrils creeping around the sides of his head, across the taunt brow and settled in the hollow of his eye sockets. Virgil blinked past the blurry, grey fog of his vision, staring at the panelled ceiling while his mind cleared. The deep black of unconsciousness hovered at the edge of his vision for what seemed like a long while, before everything cleared.
The pain wasn't like it was before. It made him fuzzy around the edges but it didn't knock out his ability to think anymore. He tried to move, and was startled to find he could – the restraints had been taken away, and there was a rush of sharp ache in his extremities as his circulation was restored.
Virgil took a shaky breath. What had happened the last time he awoke was fuzzy and disjointed – it felt like half a nightmare, something far away and distant, but it was coming closer again. He rotated his head, trying to relieve the painful tension. As he turned his head to the side, he saw a table had been moved into the room, a huge, heavy steel thing that must have taken some effort to get into the room. The chairs were light plastic. Nothing had any hard edges on it. There was no conceivable way to use any of it as an impromptu weapon. Facing him with impassive faces were four people, two men and two women, lined across one side of it. Virgil tried to make sense of this in his still sluggish mind.
"Bring him," ordered chair number one, a grey, bald plated man, dressed in a black uniform. They were all in black uniforms.
The guards, standing in Virgil's blind spot, hauled him abruptly to the table and plonked him into the one free chair facing the black clad line. Disorientated, Virgil didn't even have the wherewithal to struggle or resist. He flexed his hands around the round edges of the table, struggled to stay upright. His whole body felt like a dead weight. Forcing himself to breathe, he raised his heavy head to face his captors. Heavy was right – the helmet was still there, adding several extra pounds of unwanted weight.
Now that he could think fairly straight, he could take stock. His clothes were gone. He was wearing some sort of all purpose jump suit is a sickly bright green. The white room was glaring, and the lights bounced off the silvery mirror that lined an entire wall from, edge to edge. Dizzy and disjointed, Virgil still knew that people were watching through that mirrored wall.
"Virgil Tracy, you will answer our questions," said chair number two, this time a woman with an unpleasant voice and a lemon sour face. The bright lights cast shadows across their faces, making them into grim caricatures of faces that Virgil couldn't make beautiful on any canvas with any medium of art.
Virgil tried out his misused throat muscles, and found his mouth to dry to get more than a rasp out. There was a plastic cup of metallic water in front of him. Virgil spilled most of it with shaking hands, but no one was moving to help him, preferring mere to stare blankly as his indignity. The water roiled angrily in his nauseated stomach, but he held it in.
"What….do you…want…from me?" he choked out.
"We want the truth, young man," chair number one answered, faintly unctuous. "You have been detained for reasons of National Security," Virgil could hear the capital letter slotting themselves in front of the words.
"Is…that the same as 'arrested'," the snarky comment slipped out past his half demolished defences. Virgil was rarely careless with his words.
"I wouldn't be so flip, if I were you, Mr Tracy," said chair number three, the other woman, in a slick suit and iron grey hair. "If you are found guilty of subversion and psychic terrorism, you will be institutionalised and never released, if you don't receive the death penalty."
So no, not the same as arrested, the sneering, angry voice that just wouldn't shut up hissed inside of him. No phone call, no trial, no lawyer…
See? There's a silver lining anywhere.
Oh, shut up, Virgil told the voice. His thoughts were still all over the place.
"Where were you on the Sunday the White House was attacked?" Chair number one's voice was a stone cold monotone. Four sets of eyes were turned on Virgil. Like snakes.
Virgil took deep breath, and grouped his thoughts. "We were here. Assuming I'm still in my home town. We were at the museum. My dad was in an exhibit there, we went to see it." The statements came out flat and irritable, past the rasp and the stutters. "If you don't believe me check the security point records. We're in there. That's how you keep track of us, isn't it? I know we don't carry those damn cards for fun." There was another sarcastic comment taking control of his tongue. Virgil winced as the pressure at the base of his neck worsened for an instant.
"There are ways around that, young man," chair number two parried archly. "You people have worked together before to break the law, such manipulation is typical of you."
Virgil took careful note of the 'you people'. The 'you people' truly got his attention. "It might be typical of some people. Criminals, delinquents or something. But my family is not, and we didn't. If you could prove otherwise you would have had to get me illegally, would you?"
Geez, he had to learn to control his mouth. The vice gripped harder than before, and the water he had drunk rose up acidly in his throat. He swallowed desperately.
"You have been detained within rights," chair number two stated firmly.
Says you, hovered on the tip of Virgil's tongue, along with a host of other obscenities and angry declarations. He bit them back.
"Neither my family or I," he enunciated slowly and carefully, as if they were deaf and stupid. "Had anything to do with the attack on the White House, or any other crime, subversion, act of aggression or deviance." He very carefully didn't challenge them, didn't dare them to prove otherwise. From here until the end of this little charade, it was that and name, rank and serial number.
"You've never broken the law with regard to your psychic powers?" chair number one asked.
"No."
"Never."
"No."
"What about the incident on Monday night at the Harbourtown Mall?"
"Yes?" Virgil wasn't going to jump to any conclusions, help them in any way.
"Do you deny you publicly displayed psychic abilities on a minor?"
"No."
"That you were arrested under code 10-98, a Psychic Assault Situation?"
"Yes."
Chair number three leaned forward, her eyes intense. "You deny it?"
"Yes. We weren't arrested. We were detained." Virgil didn't let the cheeky smirk show. Stuff that in your pipes and choke on the smoke. "No charges were bought. No criminal offence was committed."
"Yet you were willing to use your powers on the public?"
Virgil didn't let them see the slow breath he took. He was good at circular breathing; he was a musician after all. He knew what they were trying to do. They were going to be as pedantic and as anal as possible, gut out the facts, poke at every tiny detail, throwing all the flaws in his face, angering him, making him lose control.
"Under what circumstances?" Virgil asked carefully.
"I beg your pardon?" Chair number two seemed almost affronted.
"Do you know under what circumstances I used my gifts?" Virgil repeated clearly.
"We're asking the questions."
Gotya. "So you don't," Virgil answered Chair-one stubbornly. The vice was beginning to clench again.
There was an awkward pause as Virgil's interrogators contemplated the corner they'd been cunningly backed into. Either they had to admit they knew nothing of the rescue, which diminished their power, or they could say they knew everything, thereby admitting that there was no criminal act to charge Virgil with.
Virgil sagged in his seat as the Psy-Blocker did its damage. It was an insubordination, but one Virgil couldn't resist making. Now he knew the extent to which they could push.
"Your smart, aren't you boy," Chair-one leaned forward, his eyes predatory. "Well you might want to try being a little less clever. You are a serious contender as a suspect in the White House attacks. You and your family. You'll want to start helping yourself."
Virgil went slightly colder. His family wasn't here – at least they had better not be. These idiots in front of him would have taunted him with that to get him off balance, wouldn't they?
He felt a flicker in the corner of his vision. The fourth chair, a small whip of a man, who hadn't spoken a word so far, shifted slightly. Virgil felt his thoughts jump onto a nasty, suspicious train.
"I don't know what you know about the actual events of the White House attack, Mr Tracy," Chair two said briskly, organising papers in front of her. "But least five people were witnessed breaking through the security checkpoint by setting it on fire and knocking out several highly trained Secret Service agents. There was a mass hysteria attack suffered by almost every member of staff in the White House, which means the reports from inside the White House about the group's movements is sketchy, but the security tapes show them gaining access to the Oval Office, and assaulting the President and several other people in the room, killing four of them. Their abilities were described as pyrotechnic, telekinetic, and some sort of telepathic/empathic mental manipulation. Several Agents discharged their weapons at the group, but none of them was injured, and the bullets never seemed to strike them. Witnesses able to testify were clear as to the group's organised and choreographed attack. They worked as a unit, they didn't leave others behind. Several of our profilers have postulated that it was a close group with a clear rank system. A platoon unit, perhaps. Or a family." They were watching him very carefully.
Virgil didn't roll his eyes, though he wanted to. That was their evidence?
"Do you deny that your family would have the abilities described in the attack, that they do, in fact, have the means to make such an attempt on the life of the President?"
A neat little trap of words that Virgil couldn't deny. But he wasn't going to give any ground. "Yes of course. And so do you. And so does anyone with access to a flame thrower and some body armour. And unfortunately my family and I are not the only powerful psychics in the country."
"You are the only powerful ones grouped together for a long enough time form a cohesive unit, the only ones with the full range of psychic abilities needed to carry out such an attack. Ergo, you are the only ones capable of doing so." Chair three was insufferably smug.
Right, Virgil thought bitterly. Psychic can't be grouped together in schools, or workplaces or the armed forces. Can't let them get any fancy ideas, now can we? No, we can't have that. Virgil's eyes flickered to the small man in the fourth chair. Do you agree, chair number four? No, you probably don't.
The slight twitch of expression was lightning fast across the man's face, invisible to anyone who wasn't looking for it.
Virgil smirked mentally. Raised with a telepath, remember? God, he wished Johnny was here. He would have picked up on the psychic's presence almost instantly, and would have had more fun with him.
The thought made an overwhelming longing rise in Virgil. He wanted to see his Dad. It was long past the age where he needed his Dad's protection for everything, but somehow when he was around there was just never any question that it would all work out. The telepath in the fourth chair didn't pick up on it. Virgil had shielded his own mind like steel.
The fourth chair, the telepath, shifted in a vexed sort of way. He leaned over to whisper in chair-three's ear, who pursed her lips.
"We only need one witness to say it was you to incarcerate you permanently," she said coldly. "And out there the PRA is being given permission to shoot to kill in apprehending other suspects in this case. If you want to help yourself and your family, you had better start seriously thinking about giving us honest information. Before it's too late to save them. They can even shoot minors, did you know?" She waved imperiously to the guards. "Take him to lock up, and let him think his situation over for a few hours."
"When we next see you, you will be back in the chair," Chair one gestured to the metal table Virgil had spent hours being strapped to. "Reflect on that also."
Hauled to his feet his was half shoved and half dragged out of the room. The Psy-blocker was making his neck stiff and achy, and made his balance shaky. He was bounced from guard to guard, and they had no problem with his banging into walls and stumbling to his knees. By the time they reached the elevator at the end of the Spartan, metal lined and featureless corridor, both his knees were scraped and bloody, his hands as well.
They restrained him at the cold steel back of the industrial elevator as it winched down. Virgil tried to count the seconds it took to get down, but the Psy-blocker was still doing it horrible job.
Hauled out and arms twisted up behind him, he was escorted into a wide, catwalk lined cavern deep in the bowels of the building. Virgil was almost in his cell before he registered what kind of place it was.
Row after row, stack after stack, cold sparse cells lined the walls. Pallid, tired faces looked out at Virgil with weary indifference as he was chucked into his own cell. The slam of the multilayer door echoed through his aching skull.
The floor was cold and hard and gritty. The lights were white and buzzing. Virgil lay still on his stomach; eyes squeezed shut, waiting for his head to wander back in.
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"Get off me. Get off me!" Gordon struggled against the hands that restrained him in vice grips either side. He'd been dragged out of the bar out into the back alley and he was certain he was dealing with at least one telekinetic because he hadn't felt any hands on him when he was shoved into the packing crate and carted a few bewildering blocks. Whoever it was managed to keep his jaw clamped shut, hard enough to make his jaw ache.
Now freed, he didn't see any problem in being extremely vocal in his displeasure. He listened to the way his voice bounced around the large space. A warehouse, Mel had said. It sounded like a large space, and Gordon noted the rustlings of at least a sizable group. He'd have to keep his senses sharp and his brain awake if he was going to stay alive.
"God dammit, just take the damn hood off!" Gordon shouted, enraged. "It doesn't matter if I'm heard, so it can't matter if I see! Get off!" It was a wild, blind burst of flame and it cost Gordon a great deal, but there was a gratifying sound of several people hurriedly stepping backwards.
He ripped the hood off. He was bathed in the dim light of dusty bulbs lining the walls of the huge rusting monolith, and shaded lights from a dozen different directions.
It was like a tiny, enclosed shanty town. It had been partitioned off with a wild array of any material available – wood slats, sheet metal, cloth, tarp, wire mesh. Each little area was a tiny space for one or two, mismatched bedrolls and blankets, various personal items, toiletries, amenities, most of which looked scrounged or cobbled together. Walkways and paths wound erratically throughout, blossoming out from what could be called the town square, a central space where Gordon had been dragged and was now surrounded by at least two dozen or more people, who were glaring at him defiantly from the perimeter.
The people were much like their residence – dressed shabbily and slightly mismatched looking, thin, tired, weary and surviving rather than living. The only one well dressed was Kite, and this was only a nominal comparison – the black leather was hardly respectable. He stood in front of Gordon at the head of the circle, like a king in his court. His little cousin was shuffled up next to him, silent and watchful as ever.
"Use your powers here without permission and we'll dump your body in the water." Kite's voice was a cold growl of authority.
Gordon felt his mouth clamp shut painfully again, and realising it was futile to try to pry it open, settled for standing perfectly still and glaring. Gordon was getting angry. He didn't do fear very well at all.
"You're surrounded by gifted people, Tracy. People with nothing to lose. People who can do all the damage the PRA squawks about. And they got no reason at all to like you, Tracy, so my suggestion is very clear. Either comply, or go to hell. We're all gifted here, you'll never even know who it's coming from.
Wanna bet? Concentrate Gordon. If a psychic is reaching for you, you'll know who. Just because you're an active not a passive doesn't mean you're insensitive. Think. Feel. Use your senses, it's all there in your head….
John's words were like a balm, and funny they should come to him here, when he needed them. But his family were always there when he needed them.
His jaw was free again. "Dark haired, dark skinned woman hiding between the large tattoo guy and the old lady with the braid," he massaged his aching mouth. "No offence to your skills lady, but my brother was a lot gentler when he did it."
There was an astonished murmur from the crowd as Gordon pinpointed his gagger with precise accuracy. Thank you John, your anal retentive need to teach the full spectrum of the soft talents has not been wasted.
Kite was unimpressed. "What I said still stands. You break our rules, and you're out the door, and I don't mean you walk out. You want our help, then you gotta help us in return. Simple bartering, got it?"
Gordon was wary. "Help like what? And can we cut the cryptic bullshit for once? I've had a hell of a night."
"We'll help you find your family. In return you help us with one of our missions – the details are inconsequential, but we routinely make it our business to rescue psychics from institutions and carers and the like. That's how most of us ended up here," Kite waved a hand at the gathering. "You help us with one of these, we'll use our network to help you."
Looking around him, at this tired, worn out, scruffy group, Gordon was having a hard time believing they could help him, let alone that they would even try. His was ringed by distrusting, angry faces. "And if I don't agree?" Gordon asked, looking back at Kite. He noticed the trap being set – the details were never inconsequential.
"You didn't seriously think you were going to walk out of here, did you?" Another voice said as another teen sidled out from the crowd. Gordon's eyes narrowed as he looked him over – a faint memory tugged at him. Suddenly he was slammed onto the ground and pinned like a giant hand was clamped across his back. After a moment of watching stars, Gordon was careful not to struggle, although he did manage a smart "do you treat all you guests like this?" out through clenched teeth. Suddenly the pressure was gone.
"That's enough, Chandler!" Kite's furious voice echoed across the network of girders and claw lifters hanging stationary overhead. "We want his help, you moron!"
It was the first time he'd ever seen the usually tightly wound Kite get angry, and it was a furious, white rage that caused people to step back. Gordon got to his feet to face his repentant attacker, and gave his feature a careful check just to be sure. Yep, he was right. All the annoyance, tension and righteous fury bubbling inside him since the raid was fast cooling into something sharp and hard, and now it had a target. "You," he spat. "You're that jackass with the silver lighter from the museum. What are you doing here? What is he doing here?" Gordon turned back to Kite, glaring. "Do you know this guy? Did you stick him on me at the museum?" He watched the leather clad anarchist, waiting for the lie. The rest of the crowd was tense. An angry psychic is never a safe psychic.
"Yes, we were watching you at the museum," Kite admitted, completely unruffled. "It was a test, to see if you were really as powerful as you claimed. I didn't need the help of some high profile wannabes. In case you hadn't noticed, this isn't a high paying gig."
"And my Dad was the only rich psychic in the area," Gordon rolled his eyes. He shouldn't be surprised. It wasn't like it was the first time anyone had ever tried to get to Jeff Tracy's money through his sons. There were family outings when none of the Tracy boys could go two steps without being besieged by charities, hopeful entrepreneurs, con men and various hangers-on. The blade edge of his anger was suddenly so much more cutting. He didn't like being used, particularly for something as small as money.
"Nice to know you're honest and forthright in your dealings. That really makes you trustworthy," Gordon hissed at the impassive Kite.
"Hey, we had to know you weren't just posers. A lot of rich brats like to play pretend for the mystique. If you weren't the real deal, then chances are you just line the PRA's bank account like the rest of rich, white America," Chandler shrugged, smirking. "Sorry about your kid brother, but it was nothing personal."
Gordon straightened, relaxed and gave a bright smile. There was a slight easing of the tension from the crowd.
Gordon's fist caught Chandler across the chin and lifted him up, sending him back several feet and on his back on the concrete.
"Nothing personal. I just wanted to see what you looked like on the ground," Gordon smirked. He'd been wanting to do that since the museum. Wood chopping was not conductive to a contented soul.
He turned back to Kite, suddenly back in control of the situation. The heavily built guy was slightly tense, pinning Gordon with his dark eyes. "You know, you've got a point. I don't have any options here. I go out on the streets and it's a matter of time before the PRA shows up. And I need to find my family, you're right. But you need to understand something – my Dad knows where I am. If anything happens to me, he's going to track me here. Do you really want to take bets on your chances if my Dad decides to tear you down? Do you think he'd stop at merely getting you arrested or disbanded? You cross the Tracy's, and you won't see the light of day again. That's a promise. You tell me what you want from me, I'll decide if it's worth my while. We're just going to have to compromise, okay? I'd really hate to have to destroy you. But don't you think I won't, if I have to. Right?"
Kite glared at him from under his bangs while the silence stretched. Eventually he nodded. They would compromise.
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John only came awake very slowly. He felt like he had a hangover, with the added insult of getting no enjoyment from alcohol the night before. His back hurt – he'd been unconscious in a tense ball. He sat up, dizzy and nauseated, trying to ease the incessant crick in his neck.
Suddenly he looked around wildly. Where the hell was…
It was a poky little room, containing one cot, blanket, a pillow and nothing else. The walls were water stained and the paint was peeling around the cracked plaster. The door was ancient and painted, and slightly ajar.
Well, he wasn't with the PRA, that was for certain. They had a massively over bloated budget. John's mind was a white blank after the phone company. He remembered going there and getting in trying to find the location of his family, anything at all. Then it all got fuzzy.
He leaned against one pitted wall, just breathing until his balance came back. He had to find out where the hell he was. He looked over at the window, even though it made his dry eyes sting. Daylight filtered through – it was mid-morning, or there about. He'd been down for six hours.
Staggering slightly, he fought his way to the peeling door, and out into a narrow corridor, dim and grey with threadbare red carpet. At the end of the corridor a spike haired teen, leathered and studded, blowing bubblegum while tapping the back of his chair on the while he slanted it back.
"Oh, hey, you're awake," he turned to John briefly, before turning down the corner of the corridor and yelling down the narrow stairway. "Hey, he's up!"
"Lord, boy, how many times to I have to tell you, no yelling in the house!" someone yelled back.
A tall, fit, grey haired man strode up the stairs to give the lad a playful cuff around the ear, before turning to John. "Hello son. I just want you to relax, okay? You're with friends. We picked you up outside the phone company and got you away before the PRA got there. You're safe, I promise. My name is Dale Kwaldon."
John blinked and ran a hand over his face. He was too tired and too overexerted to try verifying the truth of it telepathically, but John couldn't honestly see any reason why he would be lied to. "Who are you?" he croaked softly, leaning against one wall.
"We're members of the Psychic Protection network. We campaign for the rights of psychics across the US. You've heard of us?"
John had, vaguely. They were always just, around, like a balancing weight for the PRA and the anti-psychic rabble. The Tracy's had never been involved in the groups, oddly enough. Their privacy had taken precedence over everything, although John was fairly sure that his Dad made donations to the more credible ones because, well, it wasn't like they couldn't be on their side.
"Kind of," John answered slowly. "Where am I? What time is it?"
"You're in our local HQ, our meeting house. It's around about ten thirty. Do you want to come down for something to eat? Or we can bring something up if that's too much exposure." Dale Kwaldon seemed very eager to please. "Oh, and this is my son, Danny."
He cuffed the boy back on the head playfully again.
John rubbed his face over, trying to wake up. "Pleasure," he said finally. He carefully gave himself a mental diagnostic. "I should be fine," he added cautiously. "To go down, I mean."
"Great! Follow me."
The headquarters were old, a former town house in a rundown neighbourhood close to the industrial district. The rooms were too claustrophobic to house as many people as seemed to be wandering around, but in what had been the main dining room there was a working office, old terminals mounted onto one wall with volunteers tapping away at them. A bench table took up most of the rest of the space, people poring over papers, enveloping flyers, basically giving the impression of focused busyness.
Everyone looked up when he came in, and John became the focus of a group smile. He shifted uncomfortably. He hated being the centre of attention.
"Take a seat, John, take a seat," Dale directed him to one of the empty chairs. "Maria! Could you bring some food in from the kitchen? Thanks dahl."
John wanted to say not to go to any trouble, but he was tired and aching and dizzy and he knew he had to clear his head and start really thinking about his options. Food would at least keep him going for a while.
"How did you know my name?" John asked after he'd been settled into the seat and Dale was in hover mode.
"Everyone knows the Tracys, son," Dale nodded knowingly.
"The most powerful psychic family in the US," one woman grinned from the envelope piles.
"And the richest," added another man from the terminals.
"And you consistently tell the PRA where they can shove it," Dale summarised. "You're an example to most psychics and pro-psychics, son."
John didn't know whether to laugh or be embarrassed. He did know that he wished Dale wouldn't call him son. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the man getting him out of trouble and away from the PRA, but John was feeling rather raw right now, and the only man he wanted calling him 'son' was his own father.
"I appreciate everything you've done for me. You'll be in trouble if they find me here," John pointed out as the sandwiches were brought in.
"Not likely," Dale snorted. "You've missed quite a bit since you've been asleep. The news this morning had your dad on it."
John sat up straight. "What? Really?"
"Really," Dale smiled. "He made an announcement to the effect that the PRA were gunning for him, and then the PRA came in – just in time to be told that they're being audited for abuse of power. I don't think they'll have the power to arrest you now. It's all on tape and all over the papers."
John smiled grimly. "Go Dad."
"It's amazing," said one of the volunteers from the terminals enthusiastically. "We've been tracking the situation since it started. We've been using the network to track the events. We think we can find your brothers with what we have."
John looked up. "You can? How?"
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Alan had spent an uncomfortable night on the train coupling, gaining enough courage somewhere in the night to crawl across the shipping containers until he found an alcove on a flat rack where he could curl up safely. He hadn't slept – it had been windy and uncomfortable on the freight train, and he'd been too keyed up and too headachy for sleep. He'd watched the dawn come and go as the freight train pulled up to its next stop, a real station and not just a depot terminus. It rolled into the train yard slowed to a stop against the rest of its fellows.
Alan uncurled himself and dropped off the flat rack and onto the shifting rocks that made the ballast under the tracks. His legs were cramped and sore, and his head felt just as bad as it had hours ago. He walked out the cramp wandering along the train yard, heading toward the station proper. He was tired and hungry and cold. He didn't know what to do once he got to the station. His journey was turning into a series of last minute decisions meant only to get him through the next small problem.
No one stopped him as he walked into the station terminals and climbed up the maintenance steps onto the platform. No one seemed to notice him, and he wasn't in a position to notice anyone either. He felt dazed and disconnected.
He wandered into the main foyer and tried to find somewhere to sit where he could really think. He didn't even know where he was.
He found a bench and slumped on it.
"Fancy seeing you here."
Alan jumped at the familiar, drill-bit voice. He spun around to face Andrea Valentin-Smith. "What are you doing here?"
"I saw you get back on the train, but the agents couldn't find you," the woman's voice was smug. "You had to have gotten off somehow. It was just a matter of finding out where the freight train stopped. It was pretty easy to get here ahead of it."
Alan felt a cold, sinking feeling as she held up and flourished triumphantly a back pack he hadn't even thought of when he got off the train.
"You really should remember to take your things with you," Andrea smirked. "Alan Tracy."
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"They did what?" Mr Fenill demanded
"Them, or one of them," Agent Aphril, surveillance expert, shrugged. "Sent the SUV's GPS to the PRA's head office. We spent most of the night tracking the damn mail truck across town with the satellite. I don't relish putting that on the expense report."
"Do you know where it came from? What night post? Did you fingerprint the package? The GPS? Can you find the SUV? Come on, Aphril, lets get some real policing in the works here! They're still in the city – most of them, anyway. They're tired and improvising, it shouldn't be any problem to track them." Mr Fenill's frustration was carefully channelled, but present nevertheless.
"Look, do you have any idea what's been going on since you went down to the civil records to look up Tracy's property holdings? Some hackers got into our system; we've been inundated with false leads and sightings from branch offices. Our agents in Maine, Texas and Oklahoma have requested emergency field agents to deal with four botched prisoner transfers which lead to two attempted escapes. Directors from all over the country have been flying to Wisconsin on a false national security call. The New York office just got a truck load of pastries that are blocking the lobby and they had to rob the payroll to pay for them. And the coffee. Anyone who hasn't been shuffled, transferred, promoted or demoted had been out chasing leads from here to Albuquerque – confirmed sighting, massacres, disasters, locations of our twenty most wanted – we haven't got the man power for anything but damage control right now, understand? Half the Agents in this office have been transferred or fired, according to the system. The other half don't even know their ranks any more, their departments, and no one knows which way is up! We've been getting calls from the presidential staff and the Secret Service, the FBI, the CIA, the NSA and the rest of the alphabet soup asking what the hell's going on here, and the directors are trying to find a diplomatic way to say 'we haven't got a freaking clue'. And the Miles Keye commission representatives are showing up at HQ in four hours to begin the audit. Tracy just became low on everyone's priorities, okay?" Aphril ran hands through his military buzz cut, managing to look completely harangued nevertheless.
Fenill grunted. "If we can prove Tracy had something to do this the attack on Washington, then the Writ goes void and the audit is unconstitutional. Problem solved. Put him back on the priority list, will you? Unless you like unemployment office décor." Fenill stalked out of the office, feeling an overwhelming need to punch something. Well, Tracy had warned him, hadn't he? He only gave one warning before going in all guns blazing. Fenill had no idea how he managed to engineer all of this locked down at Tracy Corp, but he was determined to prove it was so.
His phone rang.
"Yes?" he answered tersely.
"We're still checking Tracy Corp's properties sir," one of his underling agents answered. "So far, no sign that they were there, or that they are heading there. It will take at least twelve more hours to check them all."
Fenill cursed. "I want every agent available on this. Take guys out of the archive, the service staff, everyone. I want those properties checked and I want it done by lunchtime tomm…today. Clear?"
"Yes sir," the underling sighed, and hung up.
Fenill dropped into his chair at his desk, and pinched the bridge of his nose. Hackenbacker wasn't at Tracy Corp, they'd scoured every inch and stopped the train. Tracy must have stashed him somewhere he knew – it was all just a process of elimination from here.
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End Part IX
