Thanks bunches for reading and reviewing, Sam, Bee and Mitzy. It's always good to get feedback. =) Edited.
21: Rally
Tracy Island, deep in his underground lab complex-
While Jeff helmed the desk and Scott led a desperate rescue attempt, Brains worked on a still tougher problem: how to block or reverse the Hood's influence; because, almost certainly, that's what had driven Alan and Gordon to launch their 'Birds, late at night and without permission.
Waked from his brief, guilty nap by a banshee chorus of screeching alarms, the engineer summoned Kyrano and TinTin. They arrived soon afterward, ready to do whatever they could. The old servant was wide awake and quite helpful, but his daughter was muzzy with sleep, and so testing her proved somewhat difficult. No matter. Dr. Hackenbacker got the data he needed anyhow, isolating a pattern of resistant brainwaves from his test subject's cranial scans.
"Th- Think of your, ah… your brother or uncle," Brains instructed, speaking to the slim, elegant Asian and his lovely daughter. "Imagine that he is, ah… is here in f- front of you."
That got an immediate response, from Jeff's manservant and TinTin, both. They tensed like deer beneath the scanning machine's sensitive neural nets; blank and startled. Then Kyrano's brainwaves developed a sudden, jagged series of peaks; almost seizure-like, though he did not lose consciousness. Some kind of attempted defense or blockage, maybe? Hitting keys and mumbling aloud, Brains next called up the girl's data.
TinTin's mind responded almost the same way her father's had, showing wild activity in the areas of sensory uptake and conscious control. With little time to consider, Brains set his computers to the task of isolating and then reproducing this reactive, "blocking" energy.
Doing so had to be possible, because human thought patterns were simply a mix of neurochemistry and electrical impulse; a sort of biological base-program. Once identified and singled out from the part of the brain which created them, such patterns could surely be broadcast and amplified.
Tense with the need for hurry, scarcely breathing, Hackenbacker put together a signal drawn from the minds of Kyrano and TinTin; one he hoped would destroy Belaghant's hold, forever.
Thunderbird 1, amid engine roar and glimmering view screens-
The atmosphere faded around them like a daydream, causing stars to burn harder, and Thunderbird 3's exhaust flare to gleam like a vivid white sword. She was pulling farther away, too; blazing for deep space with an utterly unresponsive pilot at the helm. Inside of Thunderbird 1, though, the situation was far more chaotic and noisy.
"Is he awake? Can he hear us?" Scott demanded, risking half their return fuel for a little more speed.
John had finally managed to hack into Thunderbird 3's cockpit scanner. Not lifting his eyes from the flashing instrument panel, he gave his brother a distracted nod.
"Bioscan readings are consistent with a live, active pilot… but his responses and movements are awfully slow. Same with Gordon."
"They're hypnotized, or something," guessed Scott, as he chased Alan's bright-flaring spark. "But there's a way to break through that kind of trance, isn't there? Some kind of code word or something?"
Said John, after hitting Thunderbird 4's call button, and repeating his message again,
"I don't know. I was never good at being hypnotized, remember?"
Scott grunted. Then, getting a risky and possibly hare-brained idea, he said,
"John, in 62 seconds Thunderbird 3 will be out of reach. I can't push T-1 that high. She's not built for spaceflight. So, instead, what if I shoot through Al's engine before he gets out of range, and we tow him back in?"
"Is there fuel enough?" John asked him, looking aside at his rock-profiled brother.
"We might have to glide the last few miles," Scott replied (as though such a thing were possible in the tail-heavy rocket plane).
"Or ditch in the ocean, and swim for it," suggested the pragmatic astronaut. Then, "What the h3ll, why not? Anything's better than just sitting here, helpless. You get started, and I'll call in."
"Talk slow," Scott told him, engaging the forward laser cannon, "Give me thirty seconds head start, just in case dad doesn't go for it."
"No problem. I always feel chatty on night runs."
There were times when you stood back to back with someone you knew absolutely would never fail you; who'd be there to the last, and beyond. This was one of those times, and John Tracy was one of those people.
Scott left the talking to his blond younger brother, took aim on Thunderbird 3's bright exhaust plume, and then tracked a bit higher. At Brains' insistence, all of the brothers knew every inch of circuitry in every 'Bird. They also knew exactly which areas, and what sort of damage, would yield explosion, fire, or simple cut-off.
"Panel 351, about 3 centimeters deep, 24 to the left of her rear power coupling?" Scott asked, finger loose on the trigger, eyes close to the gun-sight. John glanced away, consulting his own internalized aircraft schematics. Then he nodded his head, saying,
"That's affirm, Scott. A strike right there ought to shut 3 down without setting off any unwanted fireworks or pilot roasts."
"Okay, then. Get the tractor beam ready, and start sweet-talking dad. Here goes nothing..."
Scott took a deep breath and then let it out. His finger tightened upon the trigger just a little bit later, at about the same moment that Brains called in with a hasty scheme of his own.
Far away, trapped in a gloomy basement and still in deep trouble-
The noises above him had changed from shouted roistering to startled panic. Heavy footfalls jarred and clattered the wooden ceiling, causing dust to sift down upon Virgil (still tensely crouched within sight of a door).
Scrapes and crashes resounded above, as of chairs tumbling away from their occupants' leap. All the while, muffled screams and shouting reached Virgil's hiding place, causing his muscles to bunch and his head to throb. Portuguese, thought the young pilot, though he hadn't completed enough of those language-learning programs to be certain. Not when the speakers were highly agitated and running off, anyway.
A paper sack of dried beans had been gnawed slightly open by rats. All of the noise and confusion caused a small shower of little white beans to rattle forth onto the basement's dirt floor. Virgil took up a handful, dusted them off on his ill-fitting shirt and then put the beans in his mouth and started to crunch.
Didn't taste like much, and probably cost him more energy to eat than he gained in the process, but at that point Virgil didn't much care. Anything… any food at all… was better than his present faint hollowness.
An instant later, still chewing, the escaped pilot had made up his mind. Filling his pockets with hard white beans, Virgil lurched upright, took a better grip on his pistol and summoned the courage to approach that warped wooden door.
Midworld, in a dim, frozen corner of Inglewood Forest-
While a certain young half-orc, brother to Glud and friend (more or less) to everyone present, stumbled along in his chains, those who sought him made plans. And amends.
At Frodle's whispered suggestion, Glud approached Gawain. Though the red-haired knight would not look at him, the half-orc rumbled,
"Friend Gawain, forgive my clumsy speech. No insult was meant by it. The words sometimes outrace my thinking, is all. Will you let me take back what was said, or must we fight? If so, I am ready."
Sir Gawain fingered the hilt of his elven-forged long sword, torn between friendship and pride. The suggestion that he'd been gelded struck deep, especially in light of his defeat and banishment from Faerie. Much had happened to him, between being speared like a fish and returning to Midworld… but not that.
Sighing, because all at once he was more tired and saddened than wrathful, Gawain said,
"If you… and they… will accept my word that I'm yet entire, then I accept y'r apology, Glud."
The knight then nerved himself and looked around at elf, orc and halfling. Drehn had been marshalling spells of peace and forgetfulness. Now, he just shrugged.
"Unlike most of your kind, I've never known you to lie, Gawain. The matter is closed, as far as I'm concerned."
The scholar spoke next. Looking quite serious, he began drawing sigils in the hoof-mired slurry of snow and mud at his feet, tracing shapes with the end of a wooden staff.
"We have too many enemies to quarrel amongst ourselves, my friends. Glud spoke rashly, and is sorry for it. He and I both accept Gawain's word."
The orc nodded vigorously. Meanwhile, the black-masked grey ferret upon his broad shoulder stretched out a whiskery face, sniffing audibly. After a moment, it uttered a sort of bark, whiskers canting forward and nostrils quivering.
"You see?" Frodle told them all, smiling his way through a second mud sigil, "Even our one-time shape changer believes Gawain. Let us forget this small trouble, then, in favor of larger things; such as how we're to find and free Voreig… unblock Allat's powers… and save Midworld from the coming black winter."
Wisely, he did not bring up Gawain's sudden, unhappy arrival. The knight would discuss it in his own time, if he chose to. If not, the halfling, elf and half-orc would remain in ignorance, pleased enough to have found him again. But, as for the misplaced paladin, after a moment's thought, Sir Gawain extended his hand to Glud.
"I accept y'r apology," he said, meeting the creature's very human, wide blue-eyed gaze. Got pulled into a swift, rough embrace and back-pounding, then, because Glud was an orc of mighty emotions. Strong muscles, too.
"It is good to see you again, my friend," said the half-orc, grinning hugely. "Yon elf goes off wenching too much, Allat won't speak anymore, and all Frodle does is study his tome. I've missed you."
Gawain endured the crunching embrace (though his rod-lashed back was still rather sore). But at last he pulled free, saying,
"You've my thanks f'r th' welcome and f'r lifting th' geas, as well. Now... tell me what's happened to Allat and Voreig, and how I can help you t' set matters right."
If Glud's smile had been wide before, it threatened to split his homely grey face, now.
"It's like this…" he began, placing a pan-sized hand upon Gawain's mailed shoulder.