Just a little bit more. Thanks, Bee and Zeilfanaat!

12: Restart

Montserrat, in the midst of volcanic eruption and pyroclastic flow-

There were negative-mass materials that, when stressed, behaved in the opposite manner expected. Compress them, and they would expand. Push them away, they'd draw closer. Stretch them, they'd shrink.

Certain negative energy types showed similar properties. When pounded at, heated, squeezed or attacked, such an energy font would only get stronger.

John Tracy's idea, his last-second, life saving straw-grab, had been to reprogram Thunderbird 2's shield generator; coaxing a bit of negative energy into the mix. Not too much. No sense winding up with a smoldering, glassy-rimmed crater where the city of Bades had once stood.

Just enough of a dose… and that was down to swift, dirty mental arithmetic, in five or six perpendicular dimensions. With no time to check his math or ask Brains for a second opinion, John simply did what the Astronaut Corps had trained him to: he came up with a plan and he acted, coding almost faster than his computer could transmit.

Downstairs, meanwhile, that fragile, thinly-stretched bubble of force gained somewhat of virtual starch and of sand. Subjected to conditions that a blast furnace couldn't have replicated, the shield began to gain strength. Little by bit, it not only held off the terrible heat and corrosive gases, but blocked them almost entirely.

Inside of Thunderbird 2… up in the cockpit and down in the pod… that horrible noise of flexing metal and cracking Lexan window glass began fading at last. Alan couldn't see anything, but Jeff could, and the sight was one he'd never be able to sponge from his mind.

Part glowing ash cloud, part electrical discharge, loaded with fiery gas and volatile acids, the volcano's hot breath filled up the sky and branded the suffering earth. It had rushed upon Thunderbird 2 just as her force shield sprang up; struck and was divided, like thundering floodwaters hitting a rock. Not to say that the rock didn't feel it; wasn't shaken straight down to its stony roots in the crust. Just that it managed to stand, as did Jeff.

He'd clapped his helmet and gloves on, and then muttered some sort of apologetic last message, but did not close his eyes. Jeff Tracy faced death with his head up and his brown eyes wide open, worried only for those he'd promised to shelter and save.

Glowing ash closed 'round the Bird like a crackling fist, and then it was on. Right in front of him, one of the broad, curving windows started to sag and distort. Another one squealed aloud and then cracked. Thunder boomed so loudly that Jeff's head rang and his ears buzzed. The temperature spiked too rapidly for his survival suit's environment system to cope with. It just redlined, stuttered an error message, and shut down.

The continual roaring of jet-force grit rushing past her shook Thunderbird 2 like a nuclear blast. Jeff clung to his armrests, feeling like an ant riding a wood chip through the crashing eddies of a tremendous waterfall.

Any minute now, he expected, that overwhelmed force field would crumple. But it did not. Instead, the flickering, color-shot bubble grew stronger; feeding on fire, acid and wind.

Down in the pod, people were screaming and crying. At least, Alan figured they were, because he saw a great many tonsils and wide-open mouths. He couldn't hear anything, though; not over that world-ending cataclysmic roar. The temperature inside of the crowded pod rose crazy-fast, and people began to collapse. Then the internal sprinkler system kicked in, but most of the water evaporated before it hit anyone. Did absorb lots of heat, though, just by puffing away in midair.

The pod rumbled and shook like the inside of a really huge bell, hammered by ticked-off giants. Alan was well used to thunder and heat. He drove stock cars for a living, after all. But nothing he'd ever experienced at Daytona or Darlington came anywhere close to this. All he could do was hunker down with a couple of shrieking kids in his arms and plead that fate or the universe would let up and find someone else to shake and gnaw like a bone.

Matters were worse inside Firefly, which didn't have sprinklers to deal with that horrible, volcanic heat. Instead, Scott had sneakers pressed against his helmet by a last-second boarder who could no longer cling to the burning-hot ladder rungs. The pressure was excruciating, migraine-inducing, but all Scott could think of was the people who'd depended upon him to save them… and of Gordon, trying to ride this thing out, all by himself on the hull. His brother, out there alone.

Gordon Tracy wasn't unconscious, precisely, but he'd passed beyond the capacity for rational thought. At some point, it turns into you versus what's trying to kill you, and its all about just hanging on; scraping up one more half-smothered breath and faltering heartbeat. Just plain refusing to die.

In ICU, a similar battle was taking place, as the brave heart in a bullet-torn chest fought to keep beating. Doctors and nurses scurried. Orders were shouted, and a flat-lining VIP patient was hurriedly transported back into surgery. Nor was this all.

Not far away (and not unrelated-ly) someone was patiently tracking commands and signals, letting them lead him right up to their high-orbit source. Sometimes, all it took was pulling a single key thread to unravel the whole sturdy tapestry. But these were things that Jeff and his sons didn't know about, yet.

Elsewhere, the flaming cloud passed, as clouds do, rocketing out to the shoreline. Maybe the siege of blistering heat and corrosion lasted a whole minute. Maybe two… but those were the longest 120 seconds of anyone's life. Afterward, most were in shock; too numbed by disaster to quite grasp the fact they'd survived.

Not Scott, though. His first thought, when thinking turned possible, was of Gordon and the people in Firefly's hold. The staticky, sparking scanner revealed movement and noises inside. They'd made it. People had lived, and were starting to check on the welfare of others around them.

Ignoring the scrabbling pressure of shoes on his helmet, Scott got the comm working and called,

"Gordon? You there? Can you hear me?"

He got nothing but static, at first. Then a weak cough and a mumbled response made it through.

"Right here, Scott… suit's stuck t' the hull… paint's all gone."

Scott was torn between the desire to laugh, kiss somebody, or burrow his way through the reinforced hull. There might have been tears, but he'd never admit it.

"We'll, uh… We'll see about arranging a new paint job once we're home and we've gotten you scraped off the fender. Sit tight, buddy; we're moving, again."

"Uh-huh," the answering grunt was vague and confused. "S' cold out here," added his brother, who was suffering what amounted to roasting stress.

Not good. Not good, at all. Scott got Firefly's engine restarted, about the same time that her iridescent bubble of force finally flickered and dropped. Beside him in the cockpit, the wounded policeman had fainted unconscious. Scott would've liked nothing better than to join him, but somebody had to drive, through a blizzard of ash that showed no signs of weakening.

"You okay up there?" he called to the kid in the hatch crawlspace. (The sneakers weren't pressing as hard, anymore, and they'd shifted position.)

"Yes, sir… only Irwin just peed on me."

"Irwin?" Scott wondered aloud, as he throttled forward, sending Firefly rumbling through grey, swirling blankness.

"Yes, sir," the boy called back, raising his voice to be heard over engine, tank-treads and wind. "My puppy. His name's Irwin and I'm Sam Conley, from Cleveland, Ohio. Is my mom okay, sir? And that guy outside who was talking to me? Is everyone gonna be okay?"

Scott couldn't see the young, anxious source of that voice; just an ash-laden pattern of sneaker tread, when he craned his head to look up. Poor kid was worried, though, so he said,

"Far as I know, Sam, everyone's shaking it off and feeling around to make sure that all the important stuff is still attached and functional."

He never commented on the stream of dog pee trickling down from above. If that was the worst thing that happened this trip, he'd kiss his best girl and propose (yet again).

"Hang on up there, Sam. Once we get to the pod, I'll be able to tell you for sure. Since you'll be the first one out of the cockpit, you and Irwin can help me peel, um… that guy… off the hull."

"Yes, sir," the young voice called back stoutly. "I'll help, sir."

They built them tough, in Ohio.