One last chapter, then vacation's over. Had a blast, thank you. Hugs to Bow Echo, Guest and Helensg (which my SLD mind always translates as "Van Helsing") for reading and reviewing.
21
Jakarta, in the former Grand Central Mall-
Ilya waited to be certain that the hostages (he no longer considered himself one of those) were securely bedded down. Then, once their sniveling and hiccups had faded to steady, deep breaths, the boy slipped away. In his ragged, red nylon backpack, he had food and a single canned soda to share. Where the mechs had found that, he didn't know, and he didn't care. All his life, he'd only tasted one, split with Mom and with Sissy, who'd made a face at the bubbles. This one was grape, though. Maybe she'd like it better.
He wove his way through the hustling, streaming mechas, occasionally patting a familiar dented carapace, or accepting a bit of stale food. They, in turn, climbed him, just like they did the Mechanic, taking frequent nips from his backpack's aluminum buckles. There was confidence in Ilya's posture, now. He no longer scurried or crouched, but did his best to copy his hero's long stride.
He'd gained weight, too. His ribs hardly showed anymore, and Sissy was getting too big for her safe place. He'd have to move her soon… but where to? And how, without risking her life? Fretting, Ilya stopped paying attention to his surroundings and just followed the flow of streaming scorpion mechs. At a certain point, though, he looked around, then slipped away from the main nest, with its frantic, droning activity. Took a short corridor eastward, then went out through a green door marked:
AUTH Z D PERSON LL O Y
Mom had taught him to read, a little, but the words made no sense to Ilya. Only, they meant his stairwell, and home. Got the door open using his special combination on the keypad, and then slipped on inside. Most of the stairs had collapsed up above, and were choked with rubble, below. That's what made it a good place to live, because there was only one way to come in, and that could be booby-trapped.
Ilya knew what not to touch, though, and where not to step. He was safe from all the "surprises" Mom had rigged up. For him, it was just a warm, dusty, blanket-lined refuge, and it still smelt like home.
He was just reaching down to pull up the plywood false floor, when the door was torn off its hinges behind him with a harsh, shrieking squeal. A heave and a grunt sent it flying away, letting in light, and the noise of the swarm. The Mechanic stood there, taking up the whole portal. Behind him, the crumpled metal door struck the nest floor, spinning and bouncing, scattering mechs in every direction. Ilya jumped, gasping in shock and sudden, wild fear.
"What are you hiding?!" the Mechanic growled, pacing forward a step to crush the door's shock device. It sparked, crunched and died under his booted foot, as he batted away a chain-swinging deadfall; no more to Kane than a long paper streamer would have been. "A shielded transmitter, isn't it! Going to sell me out!"
Ilya's breath caught. He stumbled backward as the Mechanic scanned the false floor, and then made ready to blast it apart.
"Please, Sir… Wait!" he cried out, lunging for Kane's heavily muscled gun arm. "I'll show you! Please! Only, let me do it! She don't know any better! She'll cry!"
The Mechanic's target-lock was live, pointed directly at Sissy's safe place… but he didn't fire. Not yet. Ilya let go of the cyborg's arm, dropping to the ground and backing toward his sister's hiding place as though somehow his small, skinny body could shield her. Footsteps dull on the solid part, then hollow-sounding. Casting a last, pleading look at Kane, Ilya crouched down, moved a blanket aside, and then got his fingers beneath the jointed wood panel, lifting it up on well-oiled hinges.
"Shhh…!" he said, "Shhh, Sissy! It's me, it's just me!"
She looked up at him, blinking in the sudden light, and happily draped in scuttling, translucent mechas. Held up both thin little arms and smiled. The whole universe contracted to this one, awful moment, because she was all he had left. All that still mattered, from before.
Ilya squeezed his eyes shut, refusing to cry. He reached down, took hold of his sister, and lifted her up out of the blanket nest. She wrapped her arms around his neck for a ride, and snuggled up, just like always; that one, twisted leg flapping loosely against him.
"Hey, Sissy," he whispered. "Be good, okay? Be real good, now."
She chuckled and said,
"Bubby!" giving him a friendly head-bash with all of her three-year-old force. Some of the mechs in her hair fell off when she did that, but they zipped right back up through the air. Ilya took a deep breath, thinking, 'please, please, please…' Then he turned around, looking up with very wide, honey-brown eyes.
"It's Sissy," he whispered. "I ain't stole nuthin' to feed her, Mister. Just gave her half of mine. She don't eat much, and she's real quiet, and so good… nobody don't even know she's here!"
Kane stared. He had no siblings, because his mother had destroyed the weakest, and none of the others had survived implantation. This creature, with her deformed bottom half, would have been smashed against a wall and fed back into the cloning machine. Yet… she was alive with mecha; the sort drawn to psionic energy. Fifteen of the things. Even so, he felt something tap at his mind, like a kitten batting at string. The other kid, the boy, was shaking. Terrified, but trying hard not to show it. Grudgingly, Kane respected that. Some potential there, maybe. Anyway, not a transmitter. Not a betrayal.
Behind the goggles, his amber eyes narrowed. Growing bored and impatient, the Mechanic made one of his typical snap decisions. He extended a finger; its tip beginning to sparkle with extruded circuitry. Touched the girl's dirty shoulder. She twitched and hiccupped. Didn't cry, though, as circuits bit deep and sank in. Beneath her pink, flowered tank top and over-full diapers, bright streaks of silver began to appear. After a few moments, she giggled and started chasing the zig-zagging streaks with her hands.
Kane shrugged and turned away. She'd survive, or she wouldn't. No sense getting attached, or worked up about it. That, among his folk, was just life. Already halfway out the door, he paused. Then he said to the kid, over one tattooed shoulder.
"Don't like pets. It craps on my floor, I kill it."
Ilya nodded, still holding his twisting, chortling sister.
"Yes, Sir," he replied, in a fiercely adoring whisper. "She won't be any trouble."
But the cyborg, his hero, was already gone. The swarm-ship was nearly completed, his army at close to full strength. He had a great deal of planning to do before launch, and two little brats hardly counted, at all.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Thunderbird 3, between Mars and Jupiter-
John was in the pilot's seat, doing three things at once. First, keeping an eye on their course and surroundings. Second, writing new quantum game code; the kind that would add compassionate judgement to an AI's decision-making algorithm. Third, because it helped shut things out, he was playing with a projected, 4D hypercube puzzle. Eos scrambled the glowing figure, he solved it; over and over. Thinking in that many dimensions was soothing and fun, though Eos pronounced him hopelessly slow.
Then Captain Taylor glided into the cockpit, carrying a rehydrated breakfast pouch.
"Mornin', Jase. How ya doin'?"
John minimized the puzzle cube, sliding it down and away to one side. Eos would keep the timer running, no doubt. Four years, and he still couldn't stop her from cheating.
"Fine, Sir. You?"
The older astronaut puffed a long, weary sigh.
"Gotta admit, I've had better nights. Like a relay race in hell, ain't it? Just one d*mned thing after another."
John smiled, briefly; accepting the food pouch with a murmured, 'thanks'. Then, as he squeezed the pouch's egg and ham mixture into a force-shielded dining tray, John said,
"I've been thinking about the Hood, Uncle Lee… About whether we should check with the detention center, to see if he's still…"
"Tucked up nappin', like a good little psycho?" Taylor finished for him, while flipping down into the copilot's seat. "Yup. I'd say that's pretty important, Son."
But John, between careful bites of soggy, tasteless breakfast, didn't immediately call. Instead, he said,
"What I can't figure out, is… why does he hate us, so much? I mean… okay, I worked him over, some…"
Taylor made a 'little bit' sign with his pinched thumb and forefinger, which he then widened way out, using both hands. John shrugged.
"Okay, a lot. But we didn't start it! He threatened Dad, O'Bannon, and all of Global-1's crew, got us to come to him, and then gets mad, because we fought back? And calls us 'mongrels'? Seriously, what the h*ll?"
"Keep eatin' Jason," Lee ordered. "You ain't touched above half o' that. I know it ain't y'r auntie's fine cookin', but it's what we got, so get ta shovelin'!" Then, once John had reluctantly resumed eating, "You n' Spencer handed 'im his ass at the end of a pike, Jase… What'd ya expect? A thank you card?"
John almost snorted up eggs, which would have been a real mess in zero-G.
"I expect him to go piss in someone else's backyard… and to find us there waiting, when he does. You think he'd learn a lesson, from all this."
Taylor grimaced.
"That's just it, Jase. You boys gotta be what you are, and so does that sorry sonuvabitch. Long as he's breathin', guarantee you, he's schemin'. If he don't attack you directly, you'll still go after 'im, 'cause he just can't help doin' wrong. Some folks is just wired that way."
John shook his head, wishing that there was a dog around, he could feed the rest of his breakfast to. Times like this, he really, really missed Rusty.
"I get what you're saying, Sir. I just don't get him."
Taylor smiled and cuffed the back of John's head, mussing his red-golden hair.
"Be real worried if that bastitch made sense ta you, Jason. But the short answer is, we got limits an' rules. He don't. An' that means we're all the time gonna be buttin' heads. Savy?"
John sighed, looking through the viewports at golden Jupiter; still just the size of his thumbnail at full arm-stretch.
"Everything's better at a distance," he remarked. "If I could rescue without seeing faces or hearing screams… if my family was just a kiss and a present at Christmas, I'd be fine." He'd survived breakfast, anyhow. That was something.
Lee considered a moment, coming back at last with a gentle,
"Maybe you don't need them, Son, but they sure need you. Families stick together. It's all we got, Jase. Each other. Unless y'r auntie's right, an' there's somebody up there runnin' all this… In which case, I got a few requests ta make."
John smiled broadly enough to dimple, which was quite rare. Then, he said,
"Tell you what I'll never ask, again: 'What the h*ll else could go wrong?' But, request number one: The Hood's ass is right where we left it, in a d*mn hospital bed. So… you want to call, or should I?"
Taylor grinned.
"Rock, paper, scissors. Best two outta three. Go!"
XXXXXXXXXXXX
Ross Island, in the command center-
Nikorr stood watching as his people went about their assigned tasks. The Kane had been as good as her word. Sentinel was on line, once more, and three-quarters charged. With tremendous power soon on its way, Kyrano decided that a small test was in order. You know… just to be certain the laser worked… and to hurry matters along. No one could blame him for giving the rescue party a boost, after all. And if something went wrong… If his laser slipped a bit too close to the hull, or if their calculations were now wildly off, owing to sudden acceleration… well, he'd only been trying to help.
To his second, who was watching the young man through narrowed green eyes, Nikorr said,
"We will test the laser. Locate Thunderbird 3, and aim for her sail, at full blast. Let us discover the worth of their technology, and ours."
"Yes, Kyrano," his underling replied, bowing not quite so low as before. Had Nikorr not been so vengeful, so distracted, he might have noticed the change. Instead, he looked on as a series of snapped commands brought Sentinel up and out of her cavern housing, then swung her about.
"Target acquired," called the chief gunner. The Tracys weren't even trying to hide. "At your word, My Lord."
Kyrano leaned forward, hands clasped behind his back.
"Fire!"
Once again, the entire mountain shook. A broad beam of violet light shot from the gun-port. Like a lightning strike, they heard the droning hum and CRACK of ionized air, smelt the sharp tang of ozone. Maintained fire long enough to cover three and a half AUs of space. Then, nearly ten minutes later, the gunner's mate turned from her targeting scope and whirled to face Nikorr.
"A hit, Kyrano! Direct hit, my Lord!"
XXXXXXXXXXXX
In the air above Jakarta, approaching the crumbling Grand Central Mall-
Lieutenant Lasangah was flying, because her captain's indolence meant that he couldn't be bothered. Instead, he was drinking a doctored coffee and humming to himself, drooping eyes fixed on a brain-chipped music video.
There were weapons in the rickety aircar's supply locker, and earlier, Sherna had taken one out; strapped it on. As she banked over the old mall, Lasangah noticed something strange about its roof, which was oddly metallic, and moving, or… buzzing?
"French," she called, over wind noise, and the sound of his badly hummed pop song, "Captain, sir… we're almost there. It looks… I think you want to see this, French! French!"
That's when thousands of mechas rose from the roof and attacked, in a vast, droning horde.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Tracy Island, the infirmary-
She had, indeed, brought a doctor, and plenty of healing equipment. With the ring on her finger, Kraft hung on to Virgil's hand; squeezing tight, as the injured pilot first sat upon the examination table, and then (wincing a little) lay down.
Dr. Alonso unfastened the young man's sling, got the shirt off, and very gently manipulated his arm, looking up at the scanner while doing so. Muttered quietly to himself, using medical arcana and strange terminology. Words, yes. Recognizable, no.
At length, Alonso stopped his examination and turned to face Kraft. Translating his earlier comments to Basic, the stocky, pale-haired doctor said,
"It's a clean fracture of the right clavicle, erm… collarbone, plus concussion, Ma'am. Typical treatment would be keeping the arm in a sling and allowing plenty of analgesics and rest."
Virgil was clammy and pale, but he'd got his breathing under control, again. Could see straight, even.
"What's the faster way?" he asked hoarsely, ignoring waves of hot, pulsing pain from his right shoulder. "Door number two; what is it?"
Alonso glanced at his captain, who nodded approval. Only then, did he answer the dark-haired young pilot.
"Well, Mr. Tracy… if you're willing to run the risk of minor surgery…"
"Whatever it takes," said Virgil, as Emma took his hand, again.
"Understood, Sir… Ma'am. The quicker, alternate treatment would involve incision, and bone-welding. Takes about thirty minutes, and should be followed by immobilization for at least twenty-four hours. Otherwise, new bone cell growth won't propagate across the weld; meaning it's sure to break again, later."
"Risks?" demanded Emma. She had to, because Virgil didn't care. Would have signed in blood on the dotted line, right then and there. Anything, to be back in action. Men.
"The usual, following surgery, Skipper: infection, inflammation, adverse reaction to anesthesia… but your… the… this, um…"
"Virgil," he supplied, with a ghost of his usual mischief. "Unless you're Uncle Lee. Then, it's "Vic". I answer to both."
Alonso nodded.
"Virgil seems to be in excellent general condition, apart from his injuries. I anticipate no major surgical complications. Your decision, Skipper."
"Yeah. What the h*ll do I know," Virgil growled, only just not pushing himself off of the table, thanks to a sharp, needle-hot twinge from his shoulder. "I'm only the guy with the busted-ass arm."
"That would be your collarbone… Sir."
Alonso looked like the sort of doctor who wished that his patients were all unconscious. Grandma had come in by that point, looking harried and concerned. Before she could say anything to countermand him, Virgil caught the doctor's eye and said,
"Do it. I need to be back at a hundred-and-twenty percent, yesterday."
Dr. Alonso glanced over at Emma, who nodded agreement. Then, he set right to work, ordering extraneous family members the h*ll out of his operating theatre. As he was beginning to set up equipment and prep his patient, Kraft said,
"You want me to leave too, don't you?"
The doctor paused, looking up from his instrument tray.
"Unless you're a qualified nurse, by any chance…?"
Emma shook her head, still holding Virgil's hand, which had begun to slacken grip as the anesthetic took effect.
"I've held some men together on the deck, Doctor, when a cable snapped and cut them almost in half. I can help, if you tell me what to do… or I can get the h*ll out of your way, if that's better."
Alonso reached over and tossed her a green paper surgical mask, saying,
"Go scrub up, Skipper. I start cutting in five minutes, welding in seven."
XXXXXXXXXXXX
Space, leaving Thunderbird 5-
Their playful mood held for a while. With Kayo riding on his shoulders as though they were playing chicken with Gordon and Alan in the pool, how could Scott resist a few swoops and barrel rolls? The ionosphere lay a few hundred miles below them, but that was no distance at all, in an exopod. His helmet's heads-up display provided directions and distance to contact. All Scott had to do was fly through starlit space, with his sister riding piggy-back. Got a sunrise, even; a sight he'd never forget. First the brilliant, yellow-white sun breaking above the Earth's limb like a diamond, then light spreading across ocean and clouds, below. Saw the sparkling outline of cities fading, as daylight overtook them. Said Kayo, close by his ear over the helmet comm,
"That's… wow."
And all that Scott could think of to say in response was, with feeling,
"Yeah."
…then, the trouble started.