Late this time, sorry! Will edit soon. Many thanks, Tikatu, ED and Mitzy for all your reviews.
21: Plain as Day
Aboard Thunderbird 2, near the jet-black, star-freckled border of space-
Lady Murasaki was a decisive woman, quick to act once she'd made up her mind. Having been rescued (not once, but twice), she felt compelled to take control of the situation and save her troubled Earth. From the humming, softly-lit cockpit of Thunderbird 2, she contacted President Cranney and Premier Fitzhugh, followed by King Denys of England and Russia's Prince Igor. There were protocols in place through which she could establish her legitimacy, but it was the sheer force of Murasaki's personality that carried the day.
She'd met and conferred with each of these heads of state, and the Dowager Empress of China, as well; despite John Tracy's grim misgivings, her basic integrity and strength of character convinced them all to listen, and to keep an open mind. There were no directives yet, except to ready disaster relief agencies and prepare for the possibility of giant, thermonuclear explosions beneath major cities and fault zones.
Murasaki talked herself hoarse that evening, but in the end, she managed to pull the heads of state together and convince them that her authority was genuine. Dr. Hackenbacker offered her a bottle of water when the World President sat back after speaking with the last doubtful sovereign.
"Y- You're quite the s- salesman, Madame President. You, ah… you ought to th- think about heading a university, s- someday."
She smiled tiredly, accepting the moisture-dewed bottle with a small nod of thanks.
"I did not achieve this position through my own choice, Doctor, but through the sad accident which befell my predecessor, President Moreira. Once circumstances permit, I shall be most pleased to return to a quiet life in Kyoto."
Said Brains, smiling back at the delicate, dark-haired woman,
"W- What you want, and what the, ah… the world needs may be t- two different things, Ma'am, b- but I, ah… I hope you g- get your wish."
Her soft sigh and the droop of her head were very slight, but Brains noticed anyhow, and felt for her. World Presidents were not supposed to seem so… fragile. Not far away, Virgil Tracy minded the controls and instruments, as John coded and Fermat worked some persuasive magic of his own on Sam Nakamura. Outside, the frosty stars gleamed brilliant as scattered gems, while the Earth curved away blue and white and beautiful. Inside, everyone was too busy to notice.
Fermat got through on his friend's private IM channel, using the stirring words of David Hilbert ("In mathematics, there is no ignorabimus") as an opener. Naturally, Sam responded "Hypotheses non fingo*," upping the ante with Sir Isaac Newton at his least humble. (*"I do not guess")
Fermat grinned a little, imagining his short, serious friend hunched at a keyboard in Wharton, their costly, very private school. Because he was in a hurry, Fermat skipped the usual pleasantries and typed in: clock arithmetic, modulo 26. Obscure to anyone else, maybe, but for Sam and Fermat the clear establishment of a coding protocol.
Basically, you assigned each letter of the English alphabet a number from 0 to 25, and then arranged the digits in a circle, clock-fashion. Then, by entering the proper equation, you might select a letter and, with enough such letters, send a message. No solution would go higher than 25, or "Z"; they'd just wrap around and start over again, like a clock. Pretty cool, if you liked that sort of thing.
Anyhow, sitting there beside John (and equally lit by soft screen glow) Fermat sent the message: "mrs nakamura is well and says hello. pass it on."
There was a brief pause, during which Fermat could imagine sam clutching at his desk edges and blinking rapidly; trying, maybe, not to attract the attention of his dorm-fellows. Then came a rapid flood of equations which, when fed through the Modulo-26 clock, first demanded particulars and then stated: "tell mrs nakamura that her greeting is better than discovering the super grand unifying theory."
Fermat whistled aloud, awed by the depth of Sam's feelings. The noise drew stares, so he turned to look at the World President (exhausted, but erect in her rumpled blue suit) and said,
"I g- got in touch with… Sam, Mrs. Nakamura, and I t- told him you said… hello. He w- was really… happy to hear from you. He says it's even b- better than… discovering the Super Grand-Unifying Theory."
"Wow," murmured Brains, and even John seemed impressed. Virgil didn't get it, though.
"Super grand what?" He asked from the pilot's seat, half craned 'round and deeply puzzled.
"…Unifying Theory," John clarified, as Murasaki gave Fermat her answering message. "The Holy Grail of particle physics. In other words, Sam's pretty fond of his mom."
"Okay," Virgil replied, wishing that his brother and friends knew how to talk like regular people. "I'm glad that's settled, but we can't hang around here forever, sending really smart love notes. I burned up most of our fuel with that quick-start emergency launch, and God only knows what's stopped the Mysterons from picking up the trail for round two."
John moved a little, just then; a motion Virgil caught at the corner of his vision. Clearly, John knew why their attackers had held off, but he wasn't prepared to talk about it. Not yet, and maybe not ever. Filing the question away for later pursuit, Virgil added,
"I need a destination, people. ASAP." His handsome face bore a genial expression, but his voice was quite serious. He meant what he'd said.
"The island?" Fermat suggested, once he'd re-messaged Sam for the president.
"N- No," his father replied, jamming thick glasses up the bridge of his own nose with a brisk thrust. "We were, ah… were attacked th- there recently, if you recall. Black's m- men could always escape and, ah… and c- come back."
John proposed Kennedy Space Center, or White Sands, New Mexico, neither of which were deemed secure enough. Then,
"What of Sky Base?" Asked the president, still battling emotion over making contact with her family. "The Spectrum facility can be moved. It is secret, and better defended than a military base."
Spectrum? Virgil and John became quite interested; the former because he'd run into Spectrum's Captain Scarlet in Los Angeles, the latter because they'd afterward squared off on Mars. And both had recently tangled with another rogue Spectrum agent, Captain Black. They 'd heard rumors of Sky Base, naturally. Everyone had. But getting there was another matter.
"Will they let us land?" Virgil wondered aloud.
Lady Murasaki remained firm.
"Fortune has been with us so far," she told the young pilot. "I shall call Colonel White, and draw my three tiles once again."
It seemed as good a plan as any, so everyone sprang into action. The Earth rolled toward sunrise beneath them, and a final bright star… Shaula, the tip of the Scorpion's tail… gleamed through the view screen as John keyed in the comm frequency for Murasaki's next try at on-the-run diplomacy.
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Tracy Island-
Alan Tracy was nothing, if not persistent. Setting down his Play Station Nano (on which he'd been programming new RPGs instead of studying), the young man wandered into his suite's private bathroom, splashed a little water and cologne on his face, and then changed shirts. On second thought, he also changed shoes, from flip-flops to his more formal sneakers. The red and white ones.
All that game programming had got him to thinking. Y'know, about chicks… er, ladies. Yeah. Guys want adventure and freedom, right? But, um… the ladies want romance. Love, and stuff like that.
He had it all worked out. The key to TinTin's heart. Seemed kinda low to put the moves on her while Gordon was away, but, hey: you snooze, you lose, and if his brother thought paddling around the Atlantic in a dang submarine was more important than the hottest girl in Polynesia, then he deserved a little competition.
So, Alan Tracy smoothed his blond hair and struggling 'stache, checked the overall effect in a big, gilt-framed mirror, then set out to sow the seeds of a surgical boyfriend transplant. TinTin wasn't in her room, though, or upstairs, either. Not in the kitchen with his always-suspicious Grandma, or helping Kyrano in the laundry room. He didn't feel like asking Lady Penelope (AKA step-monster), so instead Alan wandered outside.
He stood blinking for a moment on the back terrace, caught in the glare and trill and rustle of full day; feeling a playful wind muss his hair and hearing the wild sea. Then he detected other sounds, nearer by, and much funnier.
Grinning to himself, Alan set off in the direction of those squeals, grunts and gentle chidings. See, the upper pool deck boasted a play area now, with its own kid-sized tables, a sand box, ball pit, fake palm tree and splash-fountain. TinTin was there with the kiddles, Sprout and Janie. Naturally, they were covered in cookie crumbs and juice, their diapers grotesquely bloated with fountain water. Heh!
"Hey, T!" Alan exclaimed brightly, stepping over the low, plastic-coated safety fence. "Babysitting, again?"
The object of his eternal devotion (for the moment, anyway) looked up from her stool. She'd just arrested Janie's lurching stagger/ fall and had a hand out to catch Ricky. Dude, the two babies were like a couple of sloshing drunks, for real.
Sort of warily, TinTin said,
"Bonjour, Alan. Yes, I am child-minding your small brother and niece."
Deciding that it might be a good move to look helpful, Alan scooped up the nearest noisemaker (his brother, Ricky) and sat down on one of those weeny little kid chairs.
"Hey, Sprout," he said, with genuine affection. It wasn't such a bad trade-off, losing 'youngest' status in return for gummy kisses and real hero-worship. He and Rick were, like, buds, okay? They went back. Tossing him a little, Alan asked, "What's up, little guy? Out here chilling with the babes?"
His mostly bald brother hooted and seized Alan's right ear, snagging a fist full of blond hair, besides.
"Ow! Careful, dude! Just because you don't got any doesn't mean you get to rip all mine out! It's, like, attached and junk!"
TinTin giggled, reminding Alan why he'd come out here in the first place. Junior reached out for him with both hands, leaning forward and crowing ecstatically (because, y'know, with some people, Alan was really popular). So he took her, too.
"S'up, girl of the world? You keeping this soggy-bottomed troublemaker straight?"
She got the other side of Alan's head. Well, at least he balanced, that way, and maybe even looked like a really patient family guy. But TinTin had gotten her cell phone out and used it now to take a quick video.
"Gordon," she said with a smile, "Will be very much amused to see what happens at home, and your father, I think, as well."
Great. Still, an opening of sorts.
"Uh… no, T. I'm sure Gords would rather see your… ouch… dark, mysterious… hey, quit chewing that…eyes. Your eyes, yeah. And, um… your beautiful face."
She blushed red as a tropical flower and leapt to her feet, reclaiming the babies like a nervous young hen. Alan got up, too. His lap was drenched (with fountain water or juice, he hoped).
TinTin kissed both little ones, as though they had some kind of Alan-blocking superpowers. But still… she was smiling a little.
"Have you not the online lessons to complete?" TinTin asked him, hiding her face behind silky long hair and tiny squealers.
As a matter of fact, he did have a lesson waiting; ancient history junk about Andrew Jackson on the Oregon Trail… but this was better.
"Uh-uh. Lessons can wait," he decided, being all manly and sophisticated for TinTin.
"No, sir, they can't," replied his grandmother's voice, from behind. "Less you plan on growing up just as ignorant and backward as your great-uncle Clemson. Mule kicked him in the head once, and improved that boy a hunnert percent. But it's a long shot, if you're aiming to get educated the same way. We ain't got no livestock, out here. Just coconuts."
Alan simultaneously jumped and whirled to find his determined old ancestor (with her wrinkled-apple face, braided silver hair and big work shirt) staring at him. Worse, sniffing all that he-man cologne he'd splashed on and nagging.
"Lord have mercy! This whole blessed island's swimming in hormones! Scoot! Get on back to your lessons, boy, before I dust your seat covers with Granddaddy's belt!"
Alan Tracy took off, heading for his room suite and an interrupted programming session. But maybe… just possibly… he'd made some progress with TinTin Kyrano, the love of his life (for now).
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Sky Base, high above the Rocky Mountains-
Meanwhile, Paul Metcalfe risked his freedom and anonymity to sneak in and see Simone, who was just coming off duty and still in her olive-drab flight gear. Tremendously beautiful, though, as something freshly risen from the waters of a newer, better world. She recognized him at once, despite the dyed hair and brown contacts. Recognized him, and yet said not a word, but let the disguised Captain Scarlet draw her into an empty ready-room.
They kissed long and passionately, but before Simone could question her immortal young man, he'd pulled away to thrust something into her hands; a small alien box of some sort, sealed shut.
"Keep this hidden," he told her, in a voice scratchy with emotion. "Don't open it unless something happens to me. You'll know what to do."
"But, Paul…!" The look in his eyes, the love and longing and wistfulness, cut Simone's protest short. An instant later he kissed her again, saying,
"It's time to leave, Simone. You go first, and don't look back. Just tuck the package away and walk. Trust me, the scanners won't see it. I'll leave a few minutes after you do."
The lovely blonde pilot clutched hard at his left arm.
"But, Paul… will I see you again?" In the room's faint illumination, her wide blue eyes were huge and filmed with pent tears.
"Maybe. Hopefully… I don't know, but I love you, and that's pretty much all I've got left."
Another kiss, there amid the desks and video screens and faintly rumbling bulkheads. Then,
"Go on, Simone. Go."
Lieutenant Girardoux placed the small dark box in her nylon flight bag with the air mask, hose, paperwork and personals. Then she left, and walking away from Paul Metcalfe was the most painful thing she'd ever done, as though every step was a stab wound.
Nor was this all, for the Mysteron Overmind had finally collected itself after a devastating attack by the John Tracy-organic on Sol 4. It had at last assembled enough scattered pieces for clear thought, only to find that its main tool on Sol 3 was inoperative, and that the slave machines had begun to rebel.
It had been correct, the Overmind reflected, to specifically target all Tracy-subunits. They were highly destructive and virulent, and their absorbed thought processes continually disturbed the Overmind's unity. The situation could be refactored, however, and with relative expedience. Properly-phrased queries showed that Captain Black had been detained at a Sol 3 defense facility termed Cheyenne Mountain.
Not for much longer as it turned out, for the shards were soon rerouted, their programming altered. Then…