Disclaimer: Thunderbirds is owned by the Anderson and their various hangers-on. This is non-profit work which doesn't belong to the author of it.

Warnings: Violence, mild coarse language, adult themes

Authors Notes: Arrrggg! This took so long! Writers block and exhaustion are my only excuses. My office has been moving premises, so I've been handling a heavy workload plus packing duties and then unpacking duties and I've been dead on my feet the last two weeks. And to top that off, I wrote two lines and then started hating what I wrote. It was awful. Don't fear, my other fics are still in the works, I just like to do them in order.

I'll try to do better.

Please give me reviews!

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Part XII – Uncut, Uncensored and Unamused

In which there is – Leaving Kansas – Attack! – Stop the World – Damned if You Do – Virgil's Phase Two – The Right Reasons – Three Ring Circus – John Tracy, Uncut, Uncensored and Unamused – Unseen Watcher – Ambush – Palton's Offer – Futility of Fate – Mr Tracy & the President – Ready to Go

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"Sir, the scanners were definitely malfunctioning. They're working fine now sir," the young agent brandished it. "They must have been there sir!"

Mister Fenill stared out into the rolling dust. "So?" he replied absently.

"So?" the agent echoed. "We should go back, sir! We'll wait for them to come out, catch them in the act!"

Mister Fenill kept staring at the dust as if he had never seen it before. Their convoy of cars was swimming in a cloud of it, speeding through the hot Kansas landscape.

"Sir?"

"Our warrant only covered the search and reasonable suspicion. Machines breaking down? The scanners are part of network hookups, I'm surprised you're getting them to work right here. It isn't reasonable suspicion; not that would hold up in a court, and we didn't find anything. There's nothing else we can do."

"But…"

"I'm still in charge of this investigation, if you would be so kind as to remember."

It was strangely liberating to make such a dangerous decision, but Mr Fenill had good reason to believe that no one would realise he made it.

He was giving up on this. However it unfolded, it would unfold without him. Maybe it would unfold as it should.

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The plan was simple. These were not trained soldiers; they were not even, in a very specialised sense, fit and healthy, and their window of opportunity was small so there was no time for a solid strategy.

Jack took Stacy on his back, and Gordon felt slightly more comfortable with that. Jack was a powerful empath, near to Alan's high level, and he could protect Stacy from any extra stress, not to mention stray bullets.

The shanty towners moved in like a pack, going from a formless trickle through the doors to an offensive wall around the front and the parking lot at the rear. They closed in on the entrances and exits, and the main force headed for the main door.

Before security could fathom just what this sudden crowd was actually doing, there was an explosion. The heavy smoke bombs spun like Catherine Wheels, whirring across the rough pavement with eerie skitters, throwing up foul smog. Security guards were coming out, drawing their guns, but suddenly were face planted into the road by unseen forces. The pinner, an Ethiopian migrant called Ivy, knelt in skirts in the mist, flanked on either side by Davis and Kite. Gordon hung back, watching warily, sticking close to Jack, blinking past his streaming eyes. Stupid! Stupid! It looked effective and efficient when SWAT guys did it, but they had masks!

But suddenly the smoke swirled away, like it was stirred with a giant hand. The shanty towners were in the clear centre and the guards still fumbling around in the smoke. Whatever Janet had made those things out of, they worked like a charm. It was pea soup out there, if you liked it smoky.

Janet may not be a psychic, but she wasn't a pushover either. She crouched near the edge of the smoky din, watching hawk like for the telltale shadow of an unpinned guard, fighting the vortex. She laid him out with a sharp uppercut, assisted Gordon learned later, by the handful of coins she tucked into her fist like reverse brass knuckles.

"Move forward!" Kite bellowed.

Step by step they walked up to the mesh gate, and shanty towners swarmed on it, working the lock and pulling at the entrance. There was the crack of a bullet, followed by several more. Crack, crack, crack…

Gordon dragged Jack and Stacy down into a crouch, as flat as he could get them. He looked around in the damn smoke – there were shouts and swears, and Gordon was pretty sure they were mostly guards. He could see them moving strangely – a few of the telepaths were most likely messing with them, making them see and hear things. Gordon kicked out with a foot at a form coming out of the fog, sending it deeper back into it with a solid blow to the diaphragm. He hustled his two charges closer to the centre of the clear space, where they would be safer.

Kite had not been stationary all this time. Davis had handled the vortex, and Kite clicked on the lighter…

…a fireball the size of a softball lit up like an orange lamp in the mist. It shot like a rocket across the heads of the shanty towners. Gordon tensed. If that thing hit an actual person he was going to have to commit suicide putting it out….
It hit a car. The street rocked with the explosion and there was a tinkle of glass as the windows nearest the blast shattered. There were screams and shouts and everyone around stopped gaping at the spectacle and turned to flee.

The gate was levered open right as the blaring sirens screamed in the surrounding area. There were more sharp crackcrackcrack's and Gordon was the only one who noticed the pinging sound that followed it. Among other things, one of the pings came from four inches away from his foot.

"The roofs! They're shooting from the roofs!"

Janet looked around wildly, suddenly tense and wide eyed. "How did the PRA get here so fast?"

"Silent alarm," Gordon shrugged. "I told you they noticed us casing the place!"

"What?"

"Inside!" Kite bellowed. "Tracy! Are you waiting for an engraved invitation?"

Gordon snorted. "You're clearly not a poker player." He spun around to deck a shadowy figure moving to close out of the fog of swirling smoke and hauled Jack and Stacy ahead as the centre point of the vortex swung forwards, the shanty towners swarming towards the door, the PRA at their backs.

"Shut the doors and bar them!" Kite voice cut across the chaotic din like a knife. Groups of tattered people went for the auto doors, ripping loose the sensors overhead and dragging the things closed.

"They're just glass! We'll need something solid to block them!" Gordon yelled over the milling crowd and alarms going off.

Suddenly Gordon noticed there was no screaming. People should be screaming, shouldn't they? Gordon turned.

There were a couple of guards knocked out on the floor, but that was it. Where was the hospital staff? The nurses? Doctors? Where was everyone, in fact, that was supposed to be here? There were just shanty towners in the reception, trying feverishly to hold the doors while the PRA set up shop outside.

There was a sound coming from the wide cafeteria room that took up most of the first floor that wasn't taken up with the ER and reception. It was like a Gregorian chant, filled with discord and flat notes.

Gordon looked around. "Rip loose the counter top on the reception. That'll plug the door," he suggested grimly. Two minutes into the game and things were already spinning out of control.

"Evan, Benny, get on it," Kite ordered. His fireball smoked through the opening and closing door at the agents moving in from the outside. "Davis, round up a few hands and get into the wards, close up the curtains and make sure all the exits are covered."

Fire whirled up around him, parting on either side, and struck a pair of guards that had crept up from the security station down at the mouth of the wide basement stairs. They were thrown against the floor, down for the count.

Gordon didn't notice the sudden silence, except in the sense that it was a bubble inside his own heart, spreading out like new blood, encompassing everything including the pounding in his ears. He lowered his hands, and walked towards them, past the frozen Kite. They were…singed only. It had been a strike of solid molten air more than flame that had hit them, there hadn't even been time to breathe it in. Feeling detached, Gordon reached down to gingerly collect the warm guns from the floor. He turned.

Janet was pointing one of the shanty towners few actual weapon at him. The rest of them were tense and coiled – they had been ready to strike, and mere heartbeat from attack. Kite stood in the front of the foreground, his face set in cement, dark eyes glaring at Gordon.

Gordon took an amazing amount of offence at the glare. "You see what happens?" he heard himself say with bladed fury. "You see how crazy this is? How stupid this whole plan is? This is how quickly it can all go wrong."

If they were taken aback by the venom in his tone, they didn't have time to show it. The glass doors at the entrance shattered under hail of gunfire and suddenly the shanty towners were scattering for cover.

"Get that counter up!" Kite bellowed from the floor, where he'd ducked down was now belly crawling to a less exposed position in the reception area.

Ivy had ripped it lose without using her exquisite Ethiopian hands, and several other hands grabbed it. A momentary break occurred in the cracking beat of the in coming fire, and several smoking canisters were lobbed into the building.

Coughing through the foul gas, the shanty towners slammed the long counter into place, which was long enough to bar the entire wide glass frontage, if not completely block it. Others threw their own contribution into the effort, bringing in heavy tables from the cafeteria and chairs from the waiting rooms, piling it all on, in and around, a makeshift barricade.

Janet choked and coughed at she trapped the gas makers under some upturned trash bins. Tears streamed from her eyes and she bent double on the floor, coughing hard enough to gag. "C-can…can we keep….them…out…?"

Kite eyes passed over Gordon darkly. "Yeah. This place is more a prison than a hospital. Not many entrance and exits. The basement is its own lock down area, and the upper levels were designed to be easy to control and confine in emergencies."

"In case something went wrong," Davis nodded, glasses slipping down across his nose. "In case there was an escape or a riot in the asylum."

The chanting hadn't missed a beat, Gordon realised as he came back into himself. He put everything else aside for a moment, into a blind spot so he could start functioning again. He put the evil looking weapons carefully down on a random chair still bolted to the wall, and headed towards the sound curiously, leaving the rest of them to button up the so-called Seredo fortress.

Gordon felt his jaw drop as the scene that met him in the cafeteria began to sink in. The faculty, the staff, some of the guards, the administration, had been lead here. Or had come here. They sat in circles and on tables and chairs, chanting in a low mumble, erratically clapping their hands at regular intervals. It was a broken, shuddering choir of blank faces and soulless voices, their eyes had a switched off, murky quality that indicated whatever they were seeing wasn't the here and now. There were a few shanty towners keeping watch, but taking up the floor were Jack and Stacy, sitting and facing each other, playing some sort of clapping game with intense concentration.

They've switched off the minds of an entire room, Gordon realised chillingly. Alan, well, Alan used to do that when he was very young and didn't understand what it was he could really do. He didn't understand back then when councillors and trainers and teachers got mad that they just…stopped being mad when Alan smiled. Alan had just thought it was smiling that did it, and in a superficial way he had gotten it dead on. He just hadn't understood that no one else could do it.

It had taken a long time for anyone to notice just how powerful an empath Alan was – empathy was the hardest of all gifts to measure accurately. It was one of the reasons he'd been home schooled in his primary school years. Too much incoming from too many people stripped his control, yes, but also the fact that if Alan had wanted to he could make a person believe they could fly, believe they could outrun a car, tangle their minds in emotions and nostalgia so that the present reality could be switched off almost completely. When Alan had finally begun to understand this, and all the ethical dilemmas this presented, he had shied away from even experimenting with it. It doesn't last long, he'd said to Gordon once when Gordon had asked him to attract a date for him, and when they come out of it they get angry. The way he'd said it had told Gordon that Alan didn't mean the 'mildly annoyed' or 'insulted' kind of angry. He meant the 'homicidal' kind of angry. The kind of angry that would strip Alan bare naked inside.

As Gordon had thought about that, he guessed he kind of understood it. It would be violating and humiliating to have your most intimate, secret self invaded and used against you. If it happened to him, he'd want to kill somebody over it. It was like rape.

A room full of blank eyed people stared Gordon in the face. Temporarily blank eyed, because this state was hard to maintain for long, even with the most powerful empath pulling the strings. When they broke loose, so would hell.

"Relax Tracy," came the voice behind him. "Stacy and Jack together can hold this for hours."

Gordon turned to face him incredulously. "With masses of stressed and sick patients all around them and the PRA closing rank outside and your people milling around stinking of each others feat and anger? Get real!"

Kite snorted. "Relax. This is only phase one. The basement comes next."

"The basement?"

"The guards are still down there. They have orders not to move. We get past them and we have access to some of the most powerful psychics in the city – and they're likely to be plenty mad."

"No kidding," Gordon snapped. "That must be why they're in an asylum."

"Kite!" Janet came running in. "The PRA is setting up a mobile battering ram. Ivy and Davis say they can't push it away. They're going to get through the door!"

"You want to get out of this or not, rich boy?" Kite asked archly. "If we control the basement, they won't dare come in."

Gordon felt like snarling. Damned if he did, damned if he didn't…

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Virgil had been hanging up for four hours now, and if you ignored the dizziness, the wrenching ache in his limbs, the cramp, the burns, the bruises, then there was always the damn, damn helmet that kept you awake, stretched your neck, squeezed your temples in a vice. Virgil had been spinning up there for just a few hours, and he hated it, hated it, hated it. He listened to the others talk around him, and wondered if that was the only to cope in here – put all the bad stuff and atrocities into a kind of blind spot. They ignored him, mostly.

Except for Chuckles, who seemed to ignore no one. He talked to Virgil even though Virgil couldn't really answer him. He listened. He cared. He was a rarity in this place. Virgil wondered if that wasn't why he had so much influence over the others. Maybe he'd listened to them all at one time or another, helped them deal with it, gave them advice.

"Son, you h-ave got to learn pa-tience. Am-bition it a wonderful th-thing, but breaking out within the first six-teen hours?" Chuckled gave a sigh. "I can't gau-rantee how long you'll be up there, but they w-ill get you down eventually, son. Soon. They wa-nt you alive. They want all of us al-ive. Maybe only to know how in-ferior we are, but they won't leave you to d-die. Don't be scared."

Virgil's eyes opened to slits, but he couldn't see past the blurry grey in front of his nose. He wished he could see Chuckles face as he spun towards the cell. He wished he could see anyone's face except just the leering guards who patrolled through the cells sporadically. He was feeling overwhelmed, homesick, under attack. He felt young. He was just a kid. He was a senior in high school, he was going to college after the summer…he was…he was just a kid…

"I kn-ow you're up to something, son," Chuckles voice emerged from the desolate despair that nearly overwhelmed Virgil as he hung there like a piece of meat. "You're too smart to n-ot b-be. I wi-sh I knew what was go-ing though that head of yours."

I wish there was still some brain left for it to go through, Virgil thought past the white noise in his lobes. He'd do anything, anything, top make this stop. He'd have done anything from the start. He'd felt like cutting off his own head…

"Having fun, prince?"

Oh, here we go….

Major Corman came marching up from the elevator, and there was a keen look of pleasure on his face as he inspected the trussed Virgil. "I expect this has all been a kind of educational experience for you. Anytime you want to get down, all you have to do is say the word; our staff will graciously assist you."

Virgil's spin took him around to view the Major's face from right up close – Virgil's head was now as just the right height to look the Major in the eye and watch his obscenely grinning face.

"Just say the word," the prod hit Virgil full in the chest and he choked and coughed as the spasm hit him, burning up his chest and neck, nearly bursting his heart. "Whoops, looks like you've lost your voice."

"The-re's no ne-ed for this, Major," Chuckles voice had a note of cold in it that was rarely ever there.

"Shut it!" the Major bellowed up to him. "I run this prison, you piece of…"

Virgil made a noise, a sort of modulated groan past his burning voice box. The Major grinned at him. "Perhaps you'd like some more, eh? Perhaps you'd all like to see," we waved his prod at the watching cells. "who runs this place? I got no time for those who don't follow the house rules. They don't…" the shock hit Virgil's back, hard. "…get…" shock "…along…" shock "…well…" shock "…here," shock, shock, shock. Virgil groaned.

"Had enough? Get the picture? You want to get down now, prince?" The Major chortled patronisingly. "Okay, no problem."

Virgil couldn't even prepare himself for the drop, and only just narrowly avoided landing on his head and breaking his neck. He landed on his back instead, his legs following as the chains all unravelled and loosened, leaving his arms and legs free of there prisons, for what good it did.

"On your feet prince, on your feet," the Major kicked him, hard. "We've got a busy schedule to keep." The prod came down across his backside humiliatingly. "On your feet, I said!"

Do as he says, Virgil's body was begging him. Just do what he says, it hurts, do what he says…

Virgil couldn't get to his feet on his own anymore, and the major hauled him up so Virgil could look him in the eye, and it was no honour looking into those cold, mad depths. Virgil groaned and sagged in the grip around his collar, trying to force his feet under him.

Something shiny dangled at the side of his vision. The pendant glimmered like white fire in the Major's meaty fist. "See something you like, prince?" he sneered. "See something of yours? What they all don't understand is that I do reward good behaviour in here, prince, I really do. Do you want this back? You've got to tell me you'll be a good boy. You'll do everything I say. You follow the rules. I got a job? You do it. I give an order to jump? You go off the cliff. Come on, say it with me, rich boy. Tell all these nice folks you'll do as you're told. Be an example."

Virgil found himself getting angry, and it was like freedom. They'd stuck him in that cage for hours, they strung him up for hours alone with his own thoughts for company and he'd thought some very strange thoughts indeed. The biggest one had been right at the start – I want to make the pain stop. Make the pain stop.

He looked at the white triangle that said safety, family, home….

He felt his anger well to a tempest, screaming inside him like a beast, trying to find a way out.

The Major must have seen it on his face, because he grinned that insane, maddening grin. "Got something to say, have you? Well," the Major's hands slipped down to the Psy-blocker control on his belt. "Say it out loud, son, we're all agog to hear." He turned up the helmet.

Past the blinding metal noise, Virgil's rage rose like a shark skimming along the surface of the sea. Emotions are a weapon, Virgil had lived with empaths long enough to know it. Use it, feed it, make them like a shield, make them like a sword. My pendant, my home, my mind. Mine. You think you can break me down, because I'm a symbol of everything you hate, everything you fear? A psychic free of rules, free of boundaries, even inside my head…

"…rew you," Virgil gasped, bringing his hands up to wrap around Corman's arms where they gripped the shirt.

"I'm sorry, what?" The helmet was turned up all the way.

Virgil made a good show of curling around with the pain, but it didn't hurt at all now, because phase two was working and it was working perfectly.

Suddenly, Virgil stood up straight. "I'm sorry, let me say it clearer." The shock on the Major's ugly, twisted up visage would keep him warm on cold nights for years to come. Virgil took a stronger grip even as he'd straightened, and brought his head forward, which incidentally had a few pounds of metal wrapped around it. "Screw," he the first blow was dead on the forehead. The Major's head snapped back and forward like it was on rubber. "You!" the second blow there was a crunch, a sickening squashy noise and a lot of blood as the Major toppled backwards like a tree, nose a bloody, broken mess.

He still had an unconscious grip on Virgil's shirt so he dragged Virgil down with him. Even as he hit Virgil was fumbling with the strap that bruised his throat and the nuts that bolted the things around the top. It took minutes of fumbling with shaky hands, but even being under fire wouldn't have stopped him. There was a moment of pure triumph as the hateful helmet was wrenched off, the aching weight finally removed. He'd had it on for so long that its sudden absence put him off balance. Virgil heaved himself off the Major and rolled on his back for a moment, waiting for the various aches and shakes to get back down to a manageable level.

The blows had...been a lot more painful than they looked, but to get that helmet off he would have cut off his own hand. Virgil was always a straight line thinker. To quickest route to making the pain stop had been straight through Corman. In the hours in his cell, he had been thinking about making the pain stop, trying so hard that he'd formed a wild but surprisingly logical idea.

Around his temples the rippling wall had been, straight up against his skin…
"Good grief," Chuckles said eventually. "Anna, I th-ink now is the time to t-turn out the lights."

Virgil was breathing hard as he forced himself to rise up. He looked at the prone man on the floor, and felt rage as black as space well up inside of him. Without ever consciously thinking about it he snatched up the bloody helmet and jammed it over that pudgy, twisted visage, fixing every bolt, tightening every strap. He grabbed the control of the belt, almost like it was the only thing that existed, and in Virgil's rage it really was…

"Not a go-od idea, son," Chuckles voice cut through the mist at the edges of Virgil's vision. His hand froze over the dial.

The rest of the inmates didn't think so. "Not a good idea? That s-sadist has it coming!" Anna shrieked from her cell as the lights started to dim. The cells seemed almost quiet now, the ravers and mumblers finally getting a break from the white noise of the helmet.

"Turn the dial, Virgil!" Adam shouted down. "Watch him twitch! The bastard has done worse things to better people!"

"We've lived like animals on his account," the unexpectedly cold voice of Kylie emerged as well, too tired and too old. "When we get out, what then? Our families have grown up without us, our children…and for what?" the old woman sounded like she was crying. "What will happen to him? Due process? What kind of punishment will that be, compared to this? He won't have every thought knocked out of him until there's nothing but suffering. He won't be kept in cells for days at a time. He won't spend years deprived of sunlight!" The entire prison seemed to have been silenced by the old woman agony. "He stole everything from us! Everything of meaning! Everything we can't get back! Please, just take some of it back!"

Virgil's teeth were grinding. Oh, that was true. It was all true. He looked down into that pudgy purple face and knew evil to the very depths of it's cold, twisted heart. He didn't deserve mercy, he didn't even deserve justice. He should be spared nothing after what he had done to these people; Virgil's two days had been nothing compared to living in this dank hell hole month after month, year after year…

You bastard, Virgil howled in his head. You bastard, bastard, bastard

His hand gripped the little remote. One turn of the dial and he could ensure he'd never put that machine on another persons head again…

"Vir-gil," Chuckles voice came out of the dark, quiet. "He is a sadist, and a monster and an animal. There's nothing in him th-at can be made to be bet-ter. You are not."

Virgil froze again. Maybe not, but after everything Corman had done, everything depraved act, and now he was the only one who could make it right…

"Ma-ke it right? You don't ha-ve that po-wer, V-Virgil," Chuckles replied to the red thought. "No-one does. All y-you have the power to do is be yo-urself. Don't te-ll me he has changed you th-at m-much."

Virgil looked up into the cold, dark cell that Chuckles resided in. He's been here longer than the rest of them. Longer than all of them, he thought. His hand moved away from the remote. Maybe he knows better.
"Virgil!" Adam groaned.

"No," Virgil whispered. "I'm still me. I got nothing to prove."

He put the evil little thing down.

"Ju-st as well," Chuckles called down. "That was the ma-ster switch. O-O-One turn and we a-ll get it."

There was a silence. Virgil stared up into the cell.

"Good grief, why didn't you say that before?" Anna said, aghast.

Virgil could feel Chuckles looking at him. "No. So-some things have t-o be done for the ri-ght reasons."

Virgil rubbed his forehead. He needed some sleep. "Who are you, Chuckles? Really?"

"On-ce my name was Char-les Dodson."

Virgil blinked. "Reverend Charles Dodson? We learned about you in school."

"Oh dear. I feel ve-ry old."

"Are you just gonna sit there reminiscing?" Adam snapped. "The guards are going to head down here soon enough with the cameras off."

Virgil nodded at the cell. "Where are the door controls?"

"Forget that!" Adam snorted. "Run for it. We'll handle it." There was a shrieking, groaning sound as the doors of the elevator fought the forces yanking it open. There was a cheer.

"Get going, young m-man," Kylie grunted from her cell. "There's nothing else you can do here."

"Are you sure?"

"It on-ly takes one es-escape to get us all o-out," Chuckles called. "The rest of us are mo-mostly non compos mentis. You've g-ot the best cha-nce."

Virgil reached down to pluck his pendant from Corman's fingers. Just holding it made him feel better. He was no longer swimming in the ocean, lost. Now he had an anchor.

He ran for the wrenched open elevator doors as the lights began to flicker and spark. The people in the cells had had nothing but time on their hands. Time to think about just how badly they wanted revenge. Time to think about it in minute detail. Time to come up with lists. As Virgil forced himself up the elevator shaft before the guards came, they were waking up, and realising they had their chance…

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John was glad when they finally got to…wherever it was they were. It looked like some sort of vaulted basement of the old fashioned variety. Dale Kwaldon drove straight into it, it's entrance was straight in from the street. Old parking garage?

John found himself at a loose end when he got there. Dale ran off to get…someone, .leaving Danny with John by the station wagon, a little out of place.

Everyone had something to do here, apparently. It was like an upscale version of the Pro Psychic Network's headquarters. Their HQ was cramped and claustrophobic, but this place had breadth and width, and a full bank of computers on one side next to a coffee station. Cables were roped across the cement floors and strung like Christmas lights in between pillars. There was blank back drop pinned up to one wall on the other side of the vaulted was ringed by cameras and sound equipment. John could smell something pungent and metallic in the air which brought back memories from his childhood long ago, when his father had taken his most scholarly son on a tour of Tracy Corp. Of course the young John had been most enthralled with the publishing department, where the newsletters and ads and articles were churned out. Unless John was very much mistaken, they were running a printing press somewhere. People, lots of people, were running the computers, fussing with the wires, bundling papers and generally adding to the air of chaotic, focused busyness.

John had been fighting uneasy feelings since he got out of the car. It was partly stress, partly suspicions. His skin felt too tight, his head felt too loud, too crowded. He was hungry but he couldn't eat, dead tired but too wired to sleep. He was, in short, feeling like a complete burnout and being in this alien, unpredictable environment was not helping at all. He wished Scott were here. He'd probably be making some sardonic comment or complaining about the unsafe wiring. It would have made John feel far more balanced just to have someone familiar around, someone who watched out for him, knew what he missed.

No one seemed to be watching them, or waiting for them to do anything. John shifted uncomfortably for a moment, before heading toward the, well, he supposed it was a kind of sound stage. There were televisions set up around the place.

John crouched down near one. There was no sound and it was unlikely John could have heard clearly over the busy din. But there was Tracy Corp behind the on-the-scene reporter, lights shining in the twilight. John flicked his eyes over the scrolling caption lines and cursed soundly when he realised he still couldn't read it.

"It says that the President has returned to the White House," Danny said from behind him.

John looked back at the screen. He couldn't read the mind of a video image; it didn't work like that. "What else?"

"Uh…it says… 'the President announced a hearing in Washington to collate the facts of the investigation into the attack. It is still unclear what involvement Jeff Tracy had in the incident.' Uh… 'The investigation in corruption in the PRA continues, and the Miles-Keye Commission has yet to release their findings'..."

"Right," John stared at the screen for a long moment.

"So…do you think they're going to…arrest your Dad?" Danny asked awkwardly.
John's jaw moved for a moment. "Dad wouldn't go down without a fight. He doesn't let anyone back him into a corner. He never lets anyone get the upper hand in what he values. He doesn't back down; he makes other people do that."

"He may not have a choice here, John," Danny pointed out uncomfortably.

"Dad makes his own choices," John smiled in a tight-lipped way. "It's not him I'm worried about right now."

"There he is," Dale had returned, and he'd brought a clean cut, tallish middle aged man with him. He had the most violent shade of red hair John had ever seen, and it was apparently natural.

"John this is Casey Robinson," Dale gestured to the man. "Casey, this is John Tracy."

John held out a hand gingerly. "Red?"

"Good guess," 'Red' Robinson smiled. He shook the proffered hand firmly. "It's an honour to have you here John."

John shifted noncommittally at that. "Can you tell me anything about my family?"

"If you could just hang on a minute, we'll get around to that," Red smiled jovially. "We'd just like to show you the broadcast set up…"

"With all due respect, no, sir," John shook his head. "I need to know. The last time I saw them they were being chased by the PRA and a bunch of supremacists. They've been scattered all over. Most of them are younger than me. I need to know."

"Now, John…" Dale started, but was cut off.

Red had a jaw like a splitting maul, and it moved indecisively before he answered. "We have several leads…"

"You don't know, do you?" John cut in, looking the man dead in the eye. "You haven't got anything to tell me." Maybe his gift was beginning to wake up. Or maybe it was just that he knew a run around when he saw one.

"Now hang on a minute, son. We're here to help you! We've got some leads and ideas, things we can do. But we don't have a lot of time. Our technicians have just got access to a pirate satellite and we only have a small window of time to get this broadcast out before it moves out of range. We have to do this now, understand?" Dale was holding out his hands to John, trying to make him understand. "You could get your story out to thousands – millions – of people. It will help."

John shook his head and moved to stride away. "This is bull…"
Red snagged him by the arm as he passed. "Now look here, son. We're trying to help you here! There's no need for the attitude."

The arm was a mistake. John glared at the clutching hand until Red released him. He continued to glare at the red headed man after the hand had gone. "You only give help with conditions, is that it? That's some enlightened philosophy."

"Just a few lines to the camera, that's all. Just say that you were victimised and persecuted by the PRA – it's the truth, isn't it?"

John tried not to let his anger show too badly as he agreed to this. He kept it inside while they did the set up, and flat out refused make up and hair. If they wanted the truth then they could take him just as he was – tired, dishevelled and haggard from headaches and stress. He tried not to snap. He tried not to lose it.

He knew this was just another after affect of overload. Irritability, mood swings, erratic behaviour, it was all there. Maybe not as debilitating as manic, hysteria or paranoia, but it could be harder to see coming. John concentrated on not hissing the words as he made his statement to the cameras under the hash lights against the backdrop. Maybe he was comforted by the fact that his brothers would see him, would know he was out there.

As for the rest of it, it had turned out to be what John feared it would be. This whole place was a propaganda machine. They talked about persecution and conspiracies. They made atrocities out of mistakes. They talked about supremacy.

They had tried, these made up hosts with the messages of anarchy, to get John to talk more about it. They asked him questions, tried to draw him in. He escaped off the sound stage with hastily spoken exit line along the lines of 'that's all have to say'. And all the time those cameras were watching him, analysing him like an insect. He felt eyes on his back wherever he went. Was he getting paranoid again? He felt like he was, damn.

"John!"

"What?" John snapped, his temper fraying.

He turned around to see Danny running towards him with what looked like a young woman about the same age with him. She was just as pierced as Danny was.

John shook himself, forcing calm. "Sorry Danny. What's up?"

"This is Tracy," Danny pointed out the girl. "She's been looking up pro-normal groups on the internet; she says she might have found something."

"Okay, let's see it. And don't call them pro-normal groups. I'm normal," John sighed.

"Uh, right," Tracy replied dubiously. "Check this out," she lead him over to the terminals. "I've been searching these sites all day, I didn't get it until I lined up all the pictures in a row. We were trying to get locations, see? About where they meet. Look at this," she clicked on one, pushing a tendril of hair out of her face. "I thought this might be a lead." The picture showed a meeting rally in a concrete plaza. They were wearing costumes like members of the Second Court. Tracy circled the background with the cursor. It was a billboard "See that? That's an advertisement for Palton's Electronics chain. I thought I could find out where they put these up to find out where they were meeting, but then I started noticing a pattern." She clicked another picture. This showed a grinning young man holding a 'MY THOUGHTS ARE MY OWN' placard defiantly. Tracy circled his upper arm with the cursor. Strapped there was…."A PPX MP3, one of Palton Industries models. And this…see the cars? Palton Katana's. And in this one….see there, on his shirt, you can see Palton's logo. There's more…" she brought up picture after picture in rapid succession.

"Palton," John muttered. "Palton, Palton, Palton…It all goes back to him."

"I go to the movies every week," Danny grimaced wryly. "I know product placement when I see it. Everybody knows Palton Industries uses psychics. He was indicted years ago because they thought he was using some kid psychic on his factory floor. Lots of pro-psychic groups keep tabs on him, watching for violations."

John shook his head. "I don't know that this helps very much."

"No, there's more," Tracy waved a beringed hand. "I got interested and I went onto a pro-n…er, one of those anti-psychic groups chats. They're all buzzing with rumours about some big rally that's going to take place at Palton complex. People are already heading there. They say that they already got a psychic there."

John froze. It could just be a rumour, couldn't it? But maybe not. And if all the anti-psychic groups were planning to be there, then maybe….

Well, what else did he have? He could feel his senses coming back on line. If any of his brothers were anywhere around there he would be able to sense them, wouldn't he? And then it would be a snap.
Impatient and still feeling a bit uneasy and sick, John thought it was time to leave now. He didn't think he wanted to be here anymore anyway.

"Hey John, did you, you know, put any mind control in the broadcast?" Tracy asked abruptly.

John blanked mentally. "What?"

"You know, plant suggestions and stuff," Tracy asked. She was genuinely curious. Danny was watching him too.

"What? No!" John protested. "It doesn't work like…it's just a video image, it's not like I can do subliminal messages onto a tape. And even if I could, I wouldn't!"

"Why not?" Danny asked, startled. "I mean, everyone's against you, so why not just, you know, change their minds, or something?"

John remembered not to shout. It was close. "Danny! You just don't do that sort of thing, okay? If I was to do that, what would be stopping me from, oh, I don't know, telling everyone to get a gun and go out shooting up anti-psychic rallies? Do you think they'd only hit bad guys, or something? Besides I can't do that, anyway. That's not how it works."

Danny seemed puzzled. "But didn't you do something to the people that attacked your house…"

"No! I gave the impression that things were a…certain way, and let them make their own assumptions. Even then, it only works for about a minute, tops. I can't make them think things, or believe things, or follow my orders. What do you think I do? Just tramp around inside people's heads whenever I like? Take thoughts from people when I feel like it? Magic away free will, the thing that makes us decent and human? That's sick." John sounded horrified.

"So…so," Danny mumbled. "You can't…cure insanity or anything. By getting inside people's heads?"

John stared at him for a long minute. "Is that what you thought? That's why you told me about your mother, you thought I could help her?" John found himself at a loss. "Danny…I can't…what's going on with your Mom, I can't…look, all I could do is read her mind, see her memories. Maybe I could, you know, remind her that you exist, but that wouldn't make her sane. I can't fix minds, I just look at them." John felt like a complete heel anyway, looking at the expression on Danny's face. "I'm sorry."

Danny nodded miserably. He was crestfallen. Tracy patted him on the shoulder.

"Where do you kids get this stuff, anyway? Mind control, curing insanity…" John shook his head, not trying to be unkind. He'd been blindsided by the revelation.

"It's in all the newsletters and stuff," Tracy replied in a small voice. She dug around her desk for a moment, unearthing from the debris a fistful of pamphlets and papers.

John looked them over, but they were useless to him in his current state. Actually, he was starting to pick out a letter here and there. That was a good sign.

"This is what you people are printing?" he asked in disbelief.

"What's wrong with it?" Danny seemed almost angry at John's flabbergasted tone. "We're helping you with that stuff!"

"Helping me?"

"What seems to be the problem, John?" Red had come over. Everyone seemed to be watching them now. "We often write about the assets that psychics offer to the community. It's to drum up support."

Danny had slunk off to his Dad's side, and was whispering in Dale's ear. He rested his head on Dale's shoulder. John looked at them both, feeling at the stress and tension and eerie watchful feeling well up to a boil, sending him into a rage. But it was a precise rage.

"It's all lies!" John yelled, throwing the propaganda papers down at the man's feet. "You churning out nothing but empty promises; it's a con! What, do you think all the people who start following the movement will stick around after they realised they've been lied to? That's one messed up philosophy, and I'm not even going to start with ethics!"

Red shrugged. "Look son…"

"I'm not your son and I'd be ashamed if I was. Address me as an adult, sir, and tell me the goddamn truth, if you think you're capable!"

Red flushed angrily. "What is the problem? The PRA and the rest of those bigots all use propaganda to get their message across. If all we tell people is that psychics are harmless individuals who are so wound up that they spend their lives on the edge of a psychotic break, what are people going to think? People have to believe you are useful, powerful, that you can bring them some benefit. People aren't impressed with the truth. We've got to give them something that will equal what the bigots are feeding them."

"Match lie for lie," John answered in disgust.
"They don't hurt anybody, John," Red retorted. "Hell, we're improving your image!"

"They don't hurt…" John choked back an entire dictionary of curses and his desire to punch Red in his fat head. "Twelve years ago a monorail station was buried under an avalanche in the Alps. All the psychics had their own car. The people digging them out dug out the other cars first, do you know why? They listened to a load of bull about how psychics could move tonnes of weight and make heat and a mess of other stuff. They weren't bigots. They weren't anti-psychic. It was triage. They really believed that the psychics in the last car were in less danger. They really thought that they could save themselves with some omnipotent power. And because they believed those stupid lies those psychics all died in the snow, in the dark, alone and listening to others being saved. Can you imagine what that was like? Doesn't hurt people? Ignorance does plenty of harm in the right place!"

Red actually took a step back from John's white rage. "But they probably wouldn't have been trying very hard to save them anyway. It's a tragedy, yes, but you need people on your side…"

"I don't want people like you on my side! One of those psychics was my mother. My mother, understand? Armies of support won't bring her back! Maybe they couldn't have saved her, maybe they could have, but it was your lies that made sure they didn't try! You all make me sick, churning out this rubbish! You're no better than any racist bigot on the street! Worse! They're more honest than you!"

There was a ringing silence as the last echoes died away John ran his hands through his hair. That did it. "I'm leaving. I'm gone. I've jumped through hoops in your little three ring circus, and now I'm getting off," John snarled. He stalked towards the ring of people, who flowed backwards and out of his way.

Except for Red. He reached out of grab John by the shoulder as he passed. "Wait, wait. I'm sorry you feel that way, but you can't leave now! We need you! The whole network is getting people together, they're rallying because of what's happening to your family. We need you to…you know…"

"He a figurehead in this little stage show," John growled. "Forget it. I don't owe you anything. Get you hands off me, of I'll show you why people are so afraid of us!"

Red backed away, but he didn't back down. "Don't be stupid. Where will you go?"

"I'll…" John stopped. His senses really were coming back online and no mistake, his head was buzzing and flashing with all sorts of weird signals. The feeling was being watched was more focused. More present. It was like being watch from inside his own head.

Oh, you know I'm here? Took you long enough.

"Everybody run," John called urgently. "Everybody! They're coming in, run!"

Whoopsie, too late

There were minds all around them. Focused, hunters minds. There was a bang from the garage doors as the truck battered through the doors, it's front fitted with steel bars and armour plates just for the purpose. Around them, glass broke, the tiny windows near the ceiling were kicked in. Damn! He's been insulated from noticing them coming! John was driven to his knees by the spike of pain that the laughing voice in his head shot at him.

"John!" Danny was by his side again. "What is it? John?"

John closed off his mind. Steel doors dropped down, shielded walls went up. But he couldn't get her out. "She was watching…all the time, she was watching," he croaked out. The tear gas was filling the room, making breathing and seeing a chore.

Feeling sick. Awww, don't worry. We'll make it all better.

He wished he could shut that arrogant, smug voice off. Without even realising it at first, John was dragged along with a whole group of people toward the backdrop side of the old garage, which was a flat, reinforced wall they could put their back's to.

Some recorded message was blaring and echoing around the whole room. Something about getting on the ground, hands up, this was the PRA sort of thing. The agents were screaming at them, hauling and punching people to the ground, closing in over the retreat like cats on cornered rats.

"Get those cameras on!" Red bellowed. "The connection is still up. Let them see this!"

The pro-psychic's charged at the agents, screaming defiance while others turned the spotlights on them. The camera's blinked and recorded, the TV's were showing weird double images of everything that was happening.

"Look at this!" Red was bellowing into a headset microphone. "This is what the PRA are willing to stoop to! This is what your civil liberties and freedoms mean to them! If you still want to live in a free country, then you must be willing to fight this!"

It was chaos. Fighting through the crush of people, John snatched the headset from Red. "This is John Tracy. If you truly think that this is worth fighting against, then come to Palton Compound. That's where the real action it going to be."

Red snatched it back. "What?"

"You wanted a war, Red," John snapped at him. "I'm going to take it out on the streets, where people can't hide it, where they can't put it in a blind spot. That's a truth we could use."

Oooooh, A challenge.

Shut up, John thought to himself. But she couldn't access anything now. His mind was on lockdown.

I see what you see. It was a singsong.

Have it your way. John snagged a discarded jacket off the floor. "Is there any other way out of here?" he yelled over the noises and screams. They'd had formed a sort of buttress of trestle tables and other equipment.

"Yes, we can…" Red was saying.

"Don't! Don't tell me. Just lead me down there," John wrapped the jacket around d his face, tying it tight to muffle as much sound as he could. "It'll take too long to explain. Just do it!"

Overhead, the crack of weapon fire cut across the din, followed by the shattering of glass as the agents took out the lights.

Not the place to be blind and deaf, John Tracy….

-----------------------------------------

Scott sat in the office, aching and numb at the same time, staring at the glass in front of him. He wouldn't have drunk it if he was dying of thirst, and he felt almost like he was. The chair was comfortable. The air was cool and refreshing. The chains had been replaced by simple plastic ties and his hands were at least in front of him. He should feel glad. He should feel comfortable.

He didn't.

Bale Palton was arguing with somebody on the phone in front of him. Behind him the glass was webbed crazily, lines of cracks seeming to give the man a broken aura. Scott didn't remember much about the transport here. He'd been trussed up and trucked at gunpoint, and his tired mind had used the time in the prone position to enter a kind of exhausted trance. He went over what Ackleby had told him. Don't move. Don't make waves. Being with one man who wanted him alive, however, seemed just as dangerous as being with Father Stewart and his cronies.

He didn't know what Palton had done to get him here. It hadn't been decided in the room he was in. He was just taken here, suddenly.

"…look, just keep them out. I don't care how." The phone went down with a snap. "Seems the ralliers are getting antsy."

Scott didn't bother to respond to that. He was instead looking with some interest at the white bands of skin on Palton's fingers. No rings. Huh. No tie clip, no fountain pen on the desk, no cufflinks…Scott smirked all the way in.

"I'm glad you're alright, Scott," Palton said abruptly. "I'm glad I could get there in time. Those people down there are not exactly enlightened."

"They have that in common with you," Scott nodded amicably, grinning. Well, his lips stretched and his teeth showed.

Palton's injured look could have won prizes. "There's no need for that."

"Will you please give me some credit for my intelligence and cut this damn charade," the words swung like blows. "I haven't got much patience left and believe me, it's not throwing through what's left of your fancy glass office that's the real struggle right now." Scott showed that funny, tense little smile again; it was the one that came from exhaustion and pain and bubbling, bubbling anger that finally had a real target.

"Violent as well as ungrateful," Palton grunted, sounding insulted.

"Yes I am," Scott replied.

Palton watched him. Minutes stretched by, sounded by the old wood clock off to the side of the office. If silence was the game, Scott had the edge. He helped raise kids. Palton's jaw moved, and he appeared to come to a decision. "If you want to take your chances with those people down there, young man, you're free to leave. Though my sources tell me they're building a gallows out there."

Scott glared at him. "Fine by me." Maybe the pain and sleeplessness and the concussion was making him reckless. Maybe it was this gauzy, tasteless glass walled office that was too cold and too ostentatious. Maybe it was his host, whose avarice was like a bad smell and would try the patience of a saint. His hands were free, his mind was a clear as a sheet of glass if a little fuzzy at the edges, he had responsibilities, he had to find his family because the idea that he, Scott, took care of them was a grooved in reflex of many years, and he was not going to sit quietly and take this anymore.

He hauled himself to his feet. He should have swayed by the anger made his body too rigid to give in. He stalked toward the elevator door and barely reacted to the sound of Palton shooting to his feet, clearly blindsided.

"I can get you to your father," Palton blurted. "You're brothers I don't know about, but I can get you to Tracy Corp."

Scott froze, despite telling himself not to. Dad would know what to do, where to go. Dad would be able to make the hard decisions. If Scott left this building, where would he even start?
"He's there, Scott. The PRA are keeping him there, but I have friends in the PRA. They will let me in."

Scott turned his head to glare sideways at the man. "And what do you get in return for this magnanimous gesture? You don't want to see the Tracy family whole any more than the PRA does. Tracy Corp's been a consistent front runner ahead of Palton Industries since it began, you've never been able to get ahead. You've got no good reason to help any of us."

Palton shrugged. "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. I have a better shot of success cooperating than competing with your father."

"And helping me will grease the wheels?" Scott snorted. "You can't be that stupid. After what you offered my Dad before, after what you did? He told me, you know…" Scott trailed off, and he turned around. "You're really not that stupid are you? You want something else."

Palton leaned back against his desk. He raised an eyebrow. "Do you know what's happening out there? The citizens want you dead, the PRA want you in jail and other psychics will spit on you in the street after being forced into hiding over the attack they think you organised. Your family haven't got many friends right now. But if it could be proved you had nothing to do with it, then all your problems disappear."

"It can be proven!"

"How hard do you think the PRA are going to look into a story coming from you?" Palton challenged. "They need a quick solution to this whole thing or people are going to start looking hard into what they really do all day. They're not interested in the truth, and they can safely ignore anything you claim. But if I claim that you were doing contract work for me at the time, I can show them the paperwork, give them witnesses, security footage…" Palton waved his hands expansively. He reached behind him to a stack of paperwork. "All you have to do is sign. It'll get the PRA of your backs. Give you time to find your family, ensure your safety."

Scott scoffed. "You seriously expect me to sign my life…to you?"

"I am not in the slavery business, Mr Tracy," Palton said in a long suffering voice. "I am not going to chain you up in my basement and force you to work. You choose the jobs you do. We pay you. We'll pay for all your education costs, getting into the Air Force, housing, housekeeping, the works. And none of you will have to deal with the PRA any longer."

Scott's eyes narrowed. "All of us?"

Palton waved his hands again. "I assumed your family would wish to take advantage of the offer."

Scott said nothing, but something in him was freezing over.

"Look, what do you want?" Palton persisted. "Do you think you're going to stay in Yale now? Do you think the Air Force will want anything to do with you? Your father's a psychic too, and right now that's as popular as anthrax. The PRA are going to watch your every move, and what they aren't watching your neighbours and teachers and every person on the street will be poking into. What kind of life is that? Do you want your brothers to grow up living with that?"

Scott glared at him. Even if it was all true (and it was, dammit, and the knowledge clawed at him) he didn't have to put up with Palton.

"This is business! This isn't some petty revenge," Palton continued, sensing he had hit a weak point. "Tracy Corp can make me money through psychics. Palton Industries can shield you from harm. You don't like living in this country? Fine, we'll send you to one of the branch offices. You want degrees, training, opportunities? I can have you test flying the latest and fastest vehicles our defence contracts can produce. You can have everything you want, son. Your brothers too."

Scott shook his head. "My Father clearly didn't think much of your offer when he was here. No metal? Dead giveaway."

"Your father," Palton replied. "Is a proud man. He thinks being alone is the same as being independent. His influence is shrinking by the hour. The PRA have him in a corner. If he were here now, he might reconsider."

You really hate that he's a better man than you, Palton, Scott snarled inside his head.

"Look, give yourself a minute. Reflect. Think it over," Palton tried to pat Scott on the shoulder as he passed. Scott slapped his hand in mid air. Palton shrugged. "If you don't like it, then you can walk out the door. But my protection ends at the door. And they're out there, waiting for you. Do you have a better offer? Think about this, Scott," Palton walked to the elevator. "Even if you can prove you are innocent, even if by some miracle the PRA decides to leave you alone, do you think anyone is going to trust anybody wearing an armband again? Whatever freedoms psychics had are about to be revoked. All you can do is get ahead of the game." The elevator doors slid open. He turned to face Scott from inside. He was ineffably smug. "You want me to drop the so-called charade? Fine. Sign the papers, and you live to see the dawn. Sign the papers, and you and your family are taken care of for the rest of your lives. Sign the papers, Scott. You don't have any other choice."

The doors slid shut.

Around the desk the papers whirled an explosion as Scott vented his futile rage.

---------------------------------------------

Alan watched One-Seventeen from his seat in the tiny compartment that had been taken over the keep them in. The PRA agents didn't seem to feel the need to separate their helpful psychics from the fugitive psychics. With only four seats available the agents didn't sit in with them, but two were posted outside the open door. One Seventeen hadn't been introduced to them, but Alan knew who he was. He hadn't said anything to Alan. He stared out of the window with dark circled eyes, turning a handkerchief over in his skeletal hands. His hat was off, and his bald head made his face look even more skull like. He had nervous tics all over. He looked like a poster child for three of the four Horsemen, and maybe War too if you included dead-eyed post traumatic stress.

Alan couldn't help looking. He wondered if that was what a psychic looked like after years of service in the PRA.

He looked at the other much dishevelled passenger in their little car. Well, at least he had something to smile about.

"Stop snickering you little brat!" Andrea snarled.

"Sorry," Alan grinned, feeling wicked and amused. "But I suddenly just noticed that there's finally a real person involved in all of this. The only real person in the whole world and it couldn't have happened to anyone better."

Andrea glared at him. "Aren't you scared? You don't even know where they're taking us! How dare you make this about me…"

"Oh, shut up." Alan turned to look out the window, which had been jammed shut. They were driving through the skeletal mass of some unfinished rail complex . Chequered lines rose across the windows. It was barren out here, scrubby woodland and rocky grassland ringed the abandoned site. Futility – Alan didn't know if the structure inspired such a feeling in himself or One Seventeen. He was picking up all sorts of strange signals in his overtired mind.

Andrea was spluttering and raging. For the last hour she'd been yelling, shouting, threatening and cursing the agents, and now she sat like sullen child, picking at the buttons of her business suit. "I don't suppose you have any more insane plans up your sleeve? You know, when we actually need to do something?"

Alan ignored her. He was much more concerned with the rising tension in his stomach, the savage chill in his spine. He was lost, raw and tired. He didn't know what they were going to do with him, but he saw a future reflected back at him in One Seventeen's face and he didn't like it at all. He felt overwhelmed. He felt scared.

He rubbed his hand anxiously, trying to warm them and dry them, and watched the afternoon sun sink slowly, along with his faith.

-------------------------------------------

"It's good to see you back in office, Madame President," Jeff Tracy bent his head towards the vid screen in his office. Off to one side, Condor Reaming chewed a fingernail while he stared out of the window, apparently lost in a world of his own.

Jeff had to admit, whatever else the man was (and with Penny you could never be too sure) he was an excellent groomer. His meeting with the President and the rest of her chiefs of staff via satellite feed was done with a certain amount of shine and poise.

"Always the charmer, Mr Tracy, I remember that from the functions I've had with you," the President nodded. "I wish we had time for pleasantries, but I'm afraid our nation is reaching critical mass. Martial law is being considered in some major centres, did you know? You have caused quite a stir."

"Your Psychic Registry has been responsible for most of it, Madame, with all due respect." Jeff had no time for formalities either. "I asked to see you because you are the only one with the authority to order my release at this time, Madame President. I've been questioned, searched and audited. There's nothing more I can do here. My sons are missing, Ma'am, and I need to go and find them. I don't want them out there alone." The shake in his voice was perfectly under control.

"The PRA are searching, Mr Tracy."

"The PRA…" Jeff stopped himself from yelling. "Are currently under investigation into their actions involving my family, my company and I. You cannot seriously tell me you believe that is an unbiased investigation."

The President drew herself up. "Mr Tracy, you must be calm. Your actions have been equally questionable and the investigation is still incomplete. There's no proof of anything yet."

"I have proof. After I have found my sons, I will personally come to Washington and present it. And I will give you access to the device." Jeff could feel their interest.

"You will not leave it to the proper authorities?" the President raised an eyebrow. "You have caused me a great deal of trouble, Mr Tracy. I don't know what kind of connections you have in Europe, but the British Parliament is about to offer asylum to a US citizen and the rest of Europe is threatening to withdraw their embassy support in reaction. You finagled an audit of a government agency in the middle of a national crisis – well done, but you've destroyed systems of security and safety and law and order throughout the country. I'm not inclined to allow you any special treatment."

"If I am not allowed to leave to find my family, a family your agency, good intentioned or bad, has scattered, then I'm afraid Tracy Corp's interests will be going off-shore," Jeff finally snapped, the coldness in his voice arctic. "All your medical contracts, the pharmaceutical research, the satellite network, the telecommunications, the infrastructure deals, everything. We run most of the rails and we control the entire communications network for your federal agencies. All of that will stop. I won't say that everything will grind to a halt but it will make life a great deal more difficult."

The President looked cold. "The American nation does not respond well to threats, Mr Tracy."

"I don't respond well to being held hostage by the American nation, Madame," Jeff replied calmly. "I don't want to hurt anyone, but if I am not allowed to go and find my sons, if I am not allowed even that tiny freedom, then I am no longer interested in serving your public trust, thank you."

The President sat back, her face, bandaged and bruised but completely unreadable. Jeff felt slightly ashamed of himself, even with all his anger. She wasn't a bad woman. She must be injured and in pain and she had a job that was hard enough for a fit person, and she showed enormous strength of character by returning to her work as soon as she could stand up on her own.

"We will…decide."

Jeff nodded, and his meeting was ended.

"An interesting woman," Condor spoke, his voice oddly quiet. "Not my type, of course, but she is built to take adversity."

"As long as she knows when to bend," Jeff ran his hand over his face. "Are we ready?"

"We're ready. After a certain point, however I will not be able to help you." Condor raised a plucked eyebrow. "Don't take unnecessary risks, darling. You are no use to your sons dead. You are no use to them buried. You won't have much time, even free. The PRA has a lot to take out on you."

"The feeling's mutual."

--------------------------------------------

End Part XII