Making up for lost time! Thanks, folks, for any and all reviews. They really do help me improve. Edited.
28: Counter-Thrust
Thunderbird 1 and 3, approaching Tracy Island-
Getting back was no joke, when faced with failed, spinning compass points and a downed GPS network. Scott, John and Alan succeeded in finding their way home because their father had always believed in old-fashioned, seat-of-the-pants flying and stellar navigation. So did the World Space Agency and US Air Force, for that matter. Only Alan was stymied by the wildly shifting poles, and not for very long.
"Guys," he asked, as they neared Tracy Island, "Is this pole thing ever gonna fix itself? Will we get back to normal, soon?"
"Probably not," John told him, over the comm. "If we really are experiencing a switch, then this wandering equatorial polarity will go on for… I dunno… anywhere from ten years to a thousand, eventually ending with a new, reversed alignment. In the meantime, our magnetic field strength is for crap, and radiation levels are redlining."
Alan digested this in silence, flying his 'Bird and watching the point on the blue, rolling horizon where Scott had said home would show up. And sure enough, there it was, after the expected 45 seconds; glowing like a cloud-topped green emerald.
"That's kinda scary," he objected at last. "Finding things with a clock and sun-angles, like that. I want my dang guidance computer back!"
"Yeah. And people in hell want ice water. Suck it up, Alan."
John took over controlling the tractor field, when they reached Island Base. He had to, because lowering Thunderbird 1 into her hangar as an unpowered derelict was fiendishly difficult, especially from outside.
Scott watched the instruments and called out a steady stream of figures while John manipulated the Heim generator's strength and orientation; tweaking this and that to bring the 'Bird safely home to its deep silo nest.
Okay… so they did scrape a tail fin and knock loose part of the upper boarding gantry. Still not bad, considering the situation.
Moving at honey-drop speed, Thunderbird 1 slipped gradually from tropical daylight to underground semi-gloom, raising sparks and screeches when she brushed something solid. Mostly, though, she descended in weird silence. No rumbling engines or throbbing impellers. Just wind, distant wave-pounding, and their father's voice calling a brisk 'welcome home'.
"Well done, boys," he congratulated them. "I don't know when I've ever seen a better-executed emergency landing." Bit of a stretch, maybe, but well-intended.
"Thanks, Dad," Scott replied, hitting his comm switch. Then, slouching back in the pilot's seat, "It's good to be home. We'll, uh… see you in just a few minutes, once Alan's down and the post-flight's completed."
Already, the familiar thunk and rattle of robot maintenance gear had set up, promising repair and refreshment for Thunderbird 1. Her pilots, though, were on their own.
Scott and John remained in the cockpit doing the usual post-flight chores until Alan, too, had docked in. Then, with both silos sealed and secure, Scott unstrapped and rose from his chair. Stretching briefly, he turned to offer John a hand up, which the other accepted after only a second's delay.
They didn't speak much at first, being rubbery-slack with exhaustion. But their slightly red-eyed mother was waiting outside, at the safety end of that damaged steel gantry, and this rather brightened things up. Better yet, she'd brought food.
All at once, the noise, clamor and weariness faded away. Scott's stride lengthened and his pace picked up. Almost running, he crossed the distance from aircraft to silo wall in Olympic-trial time.
"Hey, mom," he said, receiving a tight hug and a napkin-wrapped breakfast sandwich; bacon, egg and cheese on a crisply browned bagel. John got a longer hug, but less food (mostly because he'd never liked eating in non-standard areas). Still, the blond astronaut made no complaint about the box of cereal she brought him, or the extra-long embrace, either.
"Come on, you two," she said, smiling up at her tall, handsome sons. "Let's go get Alan and head on inside. You've got to be ready to drop."
Scott looked at John, then back at their deeply concerned mother. Joking a little, he swallowed a mouthful of food and said,
"I'm good… but he's dead on his feet. Comes from all of that junk food and computer time. Makes you weak."
Uh-huh. Had John not had his left arm up to the elbow in a box of Froot Loops, he might have made a very rude gesture. Did so, anyway, using his other hand and shielding the motion from mom with the cereal box. Mostly.
"John!" She snapped fiercely. "Street gestures and gutter language have no place in this house!"
"Yes, ma'am," he replied, trying to sound contrite. "I'm sorry, ma'am."
Scott, meanwhile, had turned very pink. Trying not to laugh, and draw her wrath onto himself, probably.
"I certainly hope so," Lucinda continued indignantly. "Just because I've been away on a few concert tours is no reason to have the lot of you reverting to savagery. Now, apologize to your brother! Look at him… you can see how deeply affected he is!"
John did look, nearly causing his brother to convulse with laughter and spit out that mouthful of sandwich. Well, there was more than one way to get a point across. Picking a language he was certain their mother didn't comprehend, John placed a hand over his heart, bowed low and said about fifteen eye-popping things; any of which would have gotten him flogged with cane rods in the lands of Araby or Persia.
"What language is that?" asked his mother, all at once terribly suspicious.
"Farsi. I opened up my heart, mom, and I'm sure Scott understands exactly what I meant."
"Ohhhh, yeah," said his older brother, stepping nearer to give John's slender back a vigorous slap. "And may I say, thank you, John, for expanding my word bank like that. I've just been enriched in ways I didn't even realize were possible."
"My pleasure," the astronaut calmly replied.
"Never mind," their mother decided, glaring from one quarrelsome son to the other with narrowed blue eyes. "I'll go get Alan, myself. You two are headed for showers and bed. Now. Move it. And no more fighting behind my back, either!"
So saying, she quick-marched them onto separate elevators; kissing both young men on the cheek before the pneumatic doors whooshed shut. Then, alone once more, Lucy sighed. Sometimes, being the mother of six active boys was a hair-tearing emotional marathon.
She loved her sons deeply, though, and would never leave them again… especially now that she'd experienced the "family business".
Elsewhere, just as a mighty quantum entity arranged events in a nearby, linked realm, the Hood moved a few key pieces of his own. Yes, his hostaged pilot had escaped him, the satellite was shut down, and several host bodies were out of commission. But Belaghant was a man of deep pockets and insidious thought. His resources were not yet ended, as the Tracy family would soon learn, to their cost.
Brazil, a few hours past nightfall-
The bullet-scarred news van bounced and creaked along an unpaved jungle road, heading for Rio de Janeiro… unless they'd missed a few turns in the darkness. Hard to tell, because the headlights didn't work, and Abe Lieberson preferred to conserve his camera-flash for dangerous river crossings and rickety bridges.
Perhaps the rainforest was usually noisy, but tended to quiet when presented with ancient, wheezing Volkswagen vans. Or maybe the animals, too, were entranced by the bands of glowing color which twisted and flickered high overhead. Pink, blue and lavendar, waving like wind-rippled veils. Certainly Virgil had never seen anything like it; great, whipping streaks of aurorae, setting chill fire to tropical skies.
"Wow," he said, wishing for paints and a canvas. Gustav Holst's Jupiter, Bringer of Jollity kept swirling through his head, its mighty surges and trills somehow matching that glorious, silent display.
"That's the best you can do?" Taylor remarked, from her position beside him at the rear of the van. "Wow? Not exactly a poet, are you, Cupcake?"
Virgil shrugged and smiled, though she couldn't well see him.
"I describe things with paint and music, not words," he told her. Then he frowned, adding, "Actually, I don't think any of us are much good at that."
"Us?" Cindy was only a vague silhouette in the wet jungle darkness, but she managed to convey sudden, sharp interest, anyhow.
"My brothers and me. Us. Scott maybe used to express himself pretty well… but lately it's all jargon and pilot-speak. John's kind of… different. You've probably interviewed him for WNN once or twice. He's pretty much all math and acronyms. Tell you what… you get him and a couple of other astronauts together in one room and all you hear is numbers and code letters. But they all use their hands when they talk about flying; like it's impossible to describe a takeoff or landing with just words."
Taylor's voice held a smile when she said,
"Okay, that's two: Scott and John. What about the rest of your pre-verbal, troglodyte siblings?"
Took him a minute to reply, because the van jounced over a deep pothole, and they nearly fell out. But when he and the reporter were securely in place again, Virgil squinted up at a shifting band of opaline light and said,
"There's me, of course, but we already know that I don't have a gift for verbal slickery, as Grandma would put it. So that brings up Gordon. He really does like to talk; about anything, any time. The problem is shutting him up, but I don't know that he ever says anything deep or inspiring."
"Gordon's the Olympic swimmer, right?" Cindy probed, in what she hoped was a neutral voice.
"Yup. And he'll tell you all about it, too, if you've got a few months. Nice kid, though. Brave as anything, and won't ever quit, no matter what. I mean, d*mn… I've seen him… seen him, um…"
Cindy Taylor's head cocked to one side, and her investigative antennae started to tingle. Out of the moist, silky darkness, her voice urged,
"You've seen him do some pretty amazing things, Virgil?"
The pilot hesitated because, yes, he had. Gordon Tracy was nearly as strong as Virgil himself, and bull-headed, stupid-brave. Apt to rush in where no one with sense had any business, eager to help save the day. The h*ll of it was, people that recklessly daring tended to get themselves killed in a hurry.
But Cindy was waiting for an answer, and International Rescue had to remain secret, so…
"Yeah," Virgil said cautiously. "I have. He's pushed himself in race after race, like he's always trying to prove something. That third gold medal, a few years back…? He collapsed off camera right afterward. I mean passed out cold, and still took part in the 400-meter relay, half an hour later. Helped win it, too. He's really something."
Cindy chuckled, shaking her head.
"That's for sure," she said. "He asked me out right after the post-relay interview. This dripping-wet, seventeen-year-old kid. I couldn't believe it."
"Sounds like Gordon," Virgil laughed. "What'd you say?"
"No, of course. I'm not a cradle-robber… but I was nice about it. For me, anyhow."
Which probably meant that she hadn't pulled a gun on him. Weirdly enough, though, Virgil was starting to like Cindy Taylor. He never got a chance to tell her about his two youngest brothers, Alan and Ricky, because all at once the van squealed to a rattling, unhealthy stop.
The reporter and pilot rose up and turned, proceeding at a half-crouch to the front of their grumbling vehicle.
"What's happened, Abe?" Cindy asked the cameraman, who was fishing around on the cluttered floor for his flash, again.
"Nothing, Sweetie. Just thought I saw something, is all, back when that really bright aurora hit. Hang on…"
Finally locating the big, square camera-flash, Abe held it out the window, facing forward. Then he pressed a red button on its plastic back, causing the light's capacitor to whine like a mosquito, charging up. When he removed his finger, the light flared, revealing a mighty thicket of sap-dripping, newly-felled trees. They lay like a tangled wall across the dirt road, blocking further passage. Darkness returned an instant later, but the image was hard-burnt in everyone's mind.
"Looks like the end of the line, darlings," Abe told Cindy and Virgil, joking a little to hide his own nervousness. "What do we do, now?"
Thunderbird 2, still escorted by fighter jets, like a shark in a school of darting remoras-
Quite a ways off, meanwhile, Gordon and Brains approached the Brazilian tank-farm inferno. The scene was utterly hellish, generating a storm of near-constant explosions and towering geysers of flame. A bright orange glow shone from the nearby river and roiling smoke clouds, casting weird shadows and confusing the eye.
Tiny figures with hoses, trucks and fire boats struggled to bring the roaring blaze under control. It had grown to monstrous proportions, though; sparked by a ravaging microwave beam and spreading to the jungle and outbuildings.
Gordon remained in contact with Island Base as he and Brains banked across the burning fuel depot, hanging hard in their seat straps as they flashed past the fighter planes.
"What's it look like, son?" his father asked him.
"Bad. As in ninety percent of the visible, above-ground structures are fully involved, and the d*mn rainforest's about to go up. We should have been here an hour ago…!"
"Are you requesting assistance?" Jeff asked, adding, "Scott and John have just arrived. I can refuel and quick-turn Thunderbird 1, if need be."
"Just a second, dad… I'll get right back to you on that one."
Muting the comm, Gordon looked across Thunderbird 2's flame-lit cockpit at Hackenbacker, who was nervously plucking his lip.
"What do you think, Brains… Call out the cavalry?"
But the engineer shook his head.
"N- No. Your brothers are, ah… are already exhausted. It w- wouldn't be safe to, ah… to push them much farther. W- We can handle this one, ourselves, G- Gordon. I'm, ah… I'm sure of it."
"Right." Nodding once, Gordon keyed up the comm. "Island Base from Thunderbird 2. You there, dad?"
"Go ahead, Thunderbird 2."
"Thanks for the offer, but no thanks. We got this. Might take a bit longer than usual, is all."
"Understood, Thunderbird 2. Stay on the line, and let me know immediately, if anything changes. I'll fly there, myself, if I have to."
Of course, no-one noticed a small, furtive figure sneaking toward the tank farm's main pump house. They could not see the fanatic yellow gleam in the man's eyes, nor hear the fatal instructions which drove him. All that Gordon and Brains knew, as they banked around for a closer pass and engaged their over-taxed foam system, was that they had work to do.
Midworld, on the shore of a dim, haunted tarn-
Foul-smelling lake mud slapped and sucked at their feet. Water swirled and burbled, hardly audible over the monster's many-throated scream. A keen wind knifed across the turbulent surface, reeking of marsh gas and death.
Doing his best to ignore it all, Frodle spelled up a ball of flickering mage-light. It rose like a sputtering green firework, and in its glow, they did battle. Ice bolts hadn't proven effective, so Drehn switched to casting magickal nets; using the sparking strands to entangle a seething forest of muddy necks.
Of course, the wretched things just oozed through and reformed again with wet, squelching pops, but the process took awhile and kept at least part of this monstrous sending out of the fight. Hovering nearby, the halfling launched a volley of fire bolts, scorching and cracking the beast's slimy flanks. Bits of it crumbled like a drying sand castle, but the rest built up faster than Frodle could shoot.
Glud handled matters his own way. He stood on a tall granite boulder, fending off attacks with his shield and spear. Didn't much harm the beast, until he discovered that a lance plunged in just the right way could hook a skull and rip it free of its mud-coated head. Just like gaffing a fish, really.
Unfortunately, there were dozens more for each one he destroyed, hissing down at the half-orc like an animate mudslide. Battle like this was rare, indeed, and Glud enjoyed every moment; bellowing lyrics to describe each block and attack.
Then the mud-monster heaped itself up to a towering height and surged forward, burying Glud beneath an avalanche of moldering slime, rusted blades and stone cobbles. The warrior was swept from his perch and onto the shore, his mouth, nose and throat packed with icy muck. Battered and disoriented, he would surely have suffocated, had Britte not rushed to his aid.
Tumbling from Dapple's broad back, she ran to the mass of heaving dank mud and began slashing at it with Gawain's long knife. With her other hand, Britte sketched the old spell-sign she'd always used to muck out the village pig sties and ox barns.
"Out!" she commanded, making a sudden, sharp flinging gesture, as though tossing a stone in the lake. And strangely enough, the stuff moved, just like the soggy straw and rank manure always had, back home.
"Out!" she repeated, sending more of the shrieking mud-beast back to its watery home. Glud reappeared just a few moments later, excavated by Britte's simple croft-magick. The halfling and elf raced in to defend her retreat, as she hauled Glud away from the icy shore of Tarn Wathelyne.
"Breathe," she urged him, employing the sort of midwifery spell that brought life back to still-born lambs and wee calves. The half-orc convulsed like a landed fish and began coughing up mud, which Britte helped along by pounding his back. She was a well-muscled girl, and her blows were quite doughty. She had him breathing right as rain in less than an eye-blink (to save his poor spine, if nothing else).
Meanwhile, Gawain swam deeper and deeper, magickally aided by Frodle's spells of long breath and clear seeing. Overhead, all was noise and clash and tumult. Below the surface, there was only cold water, shifting slime and up-rushing gas.
From here, he could see that the monster had neither legs nor a tail, but sprouted directly from a lake bed covered in ancient bones, swords and armour. It looked like a battle-field on the slopes of a roiling mud volcano.
His first clue to the lich-heart's location was a purple, scabrous glow coming from the muck monster's right flank. That the beast was not intelligent was quite obvious, for it didn't detect or attack him (though he had to stay clear of new-sprouting, blade-fanged heads). Of course, his presence might have been masked by the legion of current-swept dead things which drifted and tossed all about. Stroke of luck, if so.
The terrible cold and pressure were another matter. As Gawain kicked and stroked toward that foul purple gleam, the lake waters became murky and ice-needled; sharp as sword blades to swim through. They also crushed tight, as though trying to smash him. Frodle's spell did not cover this aspect of swimming, but Gawain could hardly pop upward and demand better mage-craft. No time.
Instead, he moved faster, kicking into an upright posture when at last he reached the beast's side. Pulled his sword from its sheathe without getting too badly tangled, and then thrust the blade toward the violet glow shining like thieves-light through that mountain of slime.
His point struck something heavy and hard, sending a jolt of fierce, blinding cold along the blade to his hand and left arm. Instantly, Gawain went numb, but the heart did not shatter or shift position, even. Rather, he was flung back several yards through the water.
Summoning courage, he re-sheathed the sword, swam close and then plunged his arm deep into the monster's flank. Past the elbow and halfway to his left shoulder he thrust, groping after a spark of wretched pale corpse-light. Then his hand closed around something so frigid that it all but killed him.
Perhaps because he was too stubborn or daft to let go, Gawain held tight and then pulled with all of his strength, ripping forth the lich-heart. Immediately, great, thudding showers of mud began to slap at the surface above, making noise like a violent hailstorm. The lich-heart throbbed and writhed in his grip, impossibly heavy for something so small. Worse, it slashed his palm, shedding blood which it drew in and fed on like some fist-sized stone vampire.
Rocks, slime and rust drifted past, returning to their troubled sleep on the bed of Tarn Wathelyne. Gawain went the other way. With the shredded last bits of his strength, he kicked for the surface, lich-heart in hand. But it was like trying to swim whilst carrying a massive ballista stone.
Out on the lake shore, Frodle dodged great slimy bombs of collapsing mud. Sensing Gawain's need, he worked a spell of item retrieval, focusing on the knight's sword belt and blade. Dangerous, because the leather might simply have snapped or the buckle unsprung, but instead his human friend was lifted clear of the water along with the summoned gear. Then the knight was deposited… coughing, bloodied and cold… on the beach at Frodle's feet.
Britte rushed forward at once, Dapple's hair-flecked blanket in one hand. Thinking quickly, she flung the cloth around her half-conscious lord, patting him down and uttering every spell of crop and livestock blessing she knew. But Britte's magick was the ordinary, everyday, common sort, used to strengthen a nursing ewe or a mother in childbed. It could not overcome the lich-heart's dark power. Nor could Sir Gawain release the thing, which had sent long, barbed needles through his left palm and arm, draining him to the point of death. Fortunately, there were others present with less-common skills.
"Glud!" called the elf, moving forward, "get your axe. We'll hew off the hand, if necessary, but first let me try something else."
After all, he'd been raised in the Caverns, among a people who kept slaves and sacrificed mortals to their goddess of darkness and bloodlust. As Glud lumbered over, axe poised and ready, Drehn spoke a terrible word. Sharp and obsidian black as an altar knife, it was; meant to destroy and subdue.
Then he listed the true names of every great mortal sorcerer his people had ever heard tell of, one after another. It was "Boragant" that finally did the trick, causing the foul undead heart to burst asunder, and then vanish entirely. Cut Gawain's left hand rather badly in the process, but those wounds… and the others… healed quick enough, through a combination of flaring blue light and farm-girl determination.
Allat returned soon thereafter, as some sort of tentacled, brass-plumed hippogriff, with Laney and Kel on his back. Both held great fistfuls of razor-edged feathers, which they'd been hurling like knives at the monster below.
"Britte!" cried the boy, "you should have seen us! We were fighting! In the air! Even Laney was brave! She never cried at all, but threw blades like Mistress Tinker at fairing day! And Allat stooped and snapped like a nobleman's falcon! I was flying, Britte!"
…And there was plenty more where that came from. She'd have listened longer, but a squire must attend to her knight, and Sir Gawain was rising now, wobbly as a day-old colt. Somewhat shyly, she waited for him to dress before helping him back into armour and harness. Bit awkward, that, for her feelings were becoming confused. Especially when he thanked her with a swift clasp and back-pat.
Britte's toes curled in her boots, and her heart pounded fiercely, but all that she did was smile and bow low, handing back the red-haired knight's shield and long knife. Once again, he carelessly mussed the top of her head. Then,
"Sir Elf," he said, turning to not-quite face Drehn, "if there was ever need f'r a transport spell, this is th' moment."
He'd heard the dreadful word of sacrifice that his friend had spoken… but chose to overcome a paladin's revulsion and wrath as best he could. Perhaps... there was more than one way to do good?
"Of y'r good courtesy, I ask that you conjure us as near as may be t' th' party of reavers. Tis a risk, I know, but much more of this…" Gawain gestured around himself at his weary, mud-spattered comrades, "…and we'll not be able to fight."
The expatriate drow would certainly be the most affected, as mage and traveler, both. Nevertheless, Drehn smiled.
"Out arms, then, and hold tight to whatever you value," he told them. "This could get a bit rough."
