Thank you, Tikatu, Bee and Zeilfanaat! =) Edited.
29: Trading Paint
Early evening near Tracy Island-
In the usual way of things, Scott or Virgil would have flown out to Papeete, Tahiti, for the week's mail. Only, Scott wasn't present and neither was Virgil, or John, Gordon, Alan or Jeff. One emergency after another had left Tracy Island skeleton-crewed by TinTin, Brains and Kyrano. This being the case, the remaining islanders couldn't afford to spare anyone for a flight to Tahiti.
But Jeff had planned ahead for such exigencies, leaving the post office sufficient funds to fly out an occasional package or letter, when no one on the island was free for a mail-and-restock run. As it happened, a few mail order packets had arrived for the Tracys, and there was time left for a quick flight once the regular round of deliveries ended. There was also competition, for the Tracy Island run was quite popular. Good tips, a pretty girl and Kyrano's fine cooking awaited them, you understand.
Five mail pilots volunteered to head out through a glowing tropical sunset to deliver the Tracys' post, but it was Joe Afaitu who won the toss. Ought to have worked out well all around, except that Joe and the mail never quite reached Tracy Island. Instead, something happened to the shiny aluminum sea-plane.
One moment, she was cruising high in the air over a sullen and rumpled Pacific, making a faint mosquito whine, but transponding normally. Cruise ships and fishing boats spotted her, but no one took very much notice, for such planes were a commonplace. Then she vanished from sight and radar screens both, like a flash and a thunder-clap; gone.
It was a small fishing boat that first reported the sudden fireball and roaring explosion. It was Tracy Island that got all the smoldering pieces of airplane, bomb and phone, raining down on the beach like fiery meteor chunks. One of these bits struck Kyrano, who'd gone down to the shore in a cart, awaiting the mail.
XXX
Broken Bow, Nebraska-
The brief hiatus had proven disastrous for one of his blinking nodes, worsening an already terrible game. But John had scored a fresh laptop, now, and he was back online with possibly five whole minutes to act, during the internet phone call to Scott.
Ice-9 had been mostly concerned with seeking out and destroying target computers. She was also autonomous, but willing to accept programming. A few keystrokes added game theory to her arsenal, in the form of a modified Hamiltonian Cycle. Now she would visit and shield each remaining node in sequence, using the most efficient possible route and repeating the process indefinitely.
Cost him attack power, but John had already lost one of his charges, and couldn't face losing another. Couldn't face learning which one had been killed, either. Not yet.
Out in the real world, Scott was talking to him over an internet voice line, while somebody worked on John's sore, battered head. The sheriff stood by with a quizzical look on his tanned face, chewing gum and watching John's apparently innocent doings. He wouldn't get down to the serious questions for awhile yet, giving the astronaut-hacker a few more minutes to work.
"Listen, John," his brother said hastily, sounding extremely tense. "Something's come up and I've got to get off the phone. I'll have a company car sent your way, ASAP. Have you got police protection?"
The astronaut glanced around at the soggy, shot-up remains of Peyton's office; at the cops and medical crew and crime lab technicians busily doing their jobs.
"Yeah," he replied. "There's police in the area."
"Good. Stay put, and wait for that car. It'll be one of the "high-risk area" armored jobs. Take care. I'll see you soon, little brother."
And then he was off the line, quick as a criminal hacker when the FBI comes to call. Well, John needed more time, so he pulled up one of his cloud-archived phone logs and clicked on a recent conversation he'd had with Alan. Next, he filtered out his own half of the call, leaving just the race-driver chattering away, while John was free to grunt bland responses and code.
Working fast, he got a virtual operating system up and running on the police laptop, right there under the gazes of Sheriff Roark, Peyton H. Larkin and half the damn Broken Bow sheriff's department. Given time and talent, you could turn almost anything into an attack computer, even a firewalled police rig. Two minutes left, John figured, keeping an eye on the archived call timer. Two minutes in which to put a permanent halt to Shr3ddr, and everyone else Ice-9 had dug up.
XXX
Wichita General Hospital, in the VIP waiting room-
Gordon and Alan rolled and struggled, locked in a scuffling, grunting embrace. Trouble was, Al had lost the element of surprise, and he wasn't as strong or athletic as Gordon, who punched like a nuclear wrecking ball and knew how to wrestle, besides.
Alan was quick, if nothing else. He ducked as many of those vicious haymakers as he could; gouging, twisting and squirming out of his brother's grasp. Got a bloody nose and a bunch of loose teeth in the process, but the phone was in worse shape. It had stopped ringing at last, its screen cracked with fine lines like a spider's web.
Gordon was in a half-crouch and rising, his face blank and his hazel eyes weird. Time to beat feet, right? But, nooo… Alan for some reason felt a sudden urge to stamp on his brother's cell phone. No rhyme or reason to it, and no explanation. He was scared, but he did it, shouting something that sounded like "Gaaaah…!"
Lunging forward and slightly to one side, Alan brought his size-12 shoe down on the already damaged phone, which crunched and sparked underfoot like a big, electronic beetle.
Would have been safest to, like, evaporate next; get the heck out of Dodge, Kansas and the USA altogether, because 225 pounds of angry, confused, red-haired Olympian wasn't something you wanted to mess with. Only, that bug in his head wouldn't leave him alone!
Now, frickin' Jiminy Cricket wanted Alan to dart over there and go through Gordon's pockets. And not for loose change, either. In his mind's eye, Alan could see some kind of heavy, faintly humming steel marble. In his mind's brain, he could see: Nuh-uh. No way. I choose life.
Then he heard and felt TinTin, uncomfortably close in his thoughts.
'Alain, please! You must. It is a bomb, triggered by the signal from an answered call, which need not come from Gordon's telephone, if another is near enough. Please dispose of it, Alain, quickly!'
"Great," he muttered. "Tell that to Conan the destroyer, over there!"
The waiting room was a wrecked shambles. Hesitant orderlies were peeking in through the door by this time, too nervous to interfere. Over the intercom, security was being summoned.
Right. Whatever else happened, Alan wanted TinTin Kyrano out of his head. Thoughts of Leeanne Labonte came rushing through his mind, along with warm memories of the blonde, busty Budweiser Cup girl. Maybe he did it on purpose; adding stuff, even. But Alan Tracy also hurled himself at his weirdly puppet-like brother.
Didn't tackle him this time. Didn't karate chop, kick or throw any useless punches, either. Instead, Al shouted,
"Gordy! How's it going, buddy ol' pal, ol' friend!"
…and kissed him. Planted a big, noisy, juicy wet one right atop the once-broken bump on Gordon's nose. It worked, too; startling the swimmer for the scant half-second it took Alan to pass both hands over his brother and locate the marble-sized sphere in his right shirt pocket. Bingo!
Gordon might've recovered from the unprovoked kiss and pat-down (although his responses were awfully slow, at the moment) but then Al reached forth again whilst ripping the steel marble away, and gave his brother a sharp, twisting purple-nerple. Now, it was time to run.
He spun and tottered on sore ankles and took off, dodging waiting room furniture and leaping magazine tables like he was in Pamplona, Spain, being tracked by a really irked bull. Orderlies and doctors dove out of his path like bowling pins, but Alan kept going. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted those two detectives, McStupid and What's-his-Badge, but never slowed down.
Off through the wide, tiled hallway he pounded, with Gordon hot at his heels. Reached the first bathroom… ladies' wouldn't you know it… and busted right in, yelling,
"Sorry, ma'am! Cover up!"
…to whoever was in there.
Found a stall and a toilet, scrambling-quick, but someone was in there. Some shrimpy, dark-haired guy. Alan was shocked almost into hysteria. He punched the dude, whose eyes were wide and sort of glow-y, right in the face. Fella slumped to the floor; Alan stepped on him, dropped the steel marble-bomb into the porcelain toilet, and hurriedly flushed.
And dang, his knuckles hurt! That port-a-john-peeper was worse off, though; down on the floor, semi-conscious and whimpering. Gordon stood blinking at the open stall door, backed by a small crowd and looking really perplexed. Behind Alan, water rushed and gurgled as a small, deadly bomb vanished from sight.
Detective Bowdrie pushed his way up through the crowd, next. The expression on his face was priceless, and if he'd been able to get his phone out, Al would have taken a picture. All Bowdrie said was,
"What the hell…?"
Which was a dang good question; one Alan hadn't quite worked out, himself. Another interruption occurred before he could say anything, though. Teena Redfeather was peering at him over the bathroom stall divider, chin on her folded arms. Probably standing on the next toilet over. To Alan, she said,
"You got a real way with people, Blondie. I gotta hand it to you. Got any last words before I holler for grandma and the law closes in?"
"Um… no. Not a dang thing. Couldn't explain all this with two weeks and a team of ghost writers. Just lock me up in a nice, warm cell somewhere. I could use the rest."
And the worst part was: he meant it.
XXX
Elsewhere, in the lair of a certain criminal hacker-
Shr3ddr leapt backward and shrieked like a tea-kettle, falling right off of his chair. Every monitor screen had gone suddenly dark, displaying only the ASCII-drawn sign of a Superman shield, and the words: GAME OVER.
From upstairs, he could hear the noise of somebody pounding hard at the front door. Then his mother's voice filtered down through the triple-locked barriers to his basement lair, calling,
"Sweetie-pie, there's somebody here to see you!"
Looked like a trap, but Fielding had a survival pack with food and back-up drives, and he also had another way out. Picking himself up off the litter-strewn floor, Shr3ddr grabbed the red nylon backpack containing his "doomsday survival kit", and then scuttled to a wooden door set in the concrete-block wall. There were cob-webbed stairs behind it, leading upward and out to… a brace of men with badges and dark, formal business suits.
"Morning, Mr.… Shredder, isn't it?" said one of them, stepping forward. "Agent Albright, FBI. My partners and I received a tip-off that there's been some credit card scam and identity theft going on in the area. We'd like to ask you a few questions."
Fielding's pimpled face went ashen. His legs gave way underneath him, and he sat down on the cellar door's wooden stoop, hard. Stupid birds were frickin' singing, the dumb-ass sun was hauling itself over the butt-scrape Rockies, and he was under arrest, again. Great. Just peachy. Sometimes, Shr3ddr thought to himself, as he heard the tinkle of opening handcuffs, life wasn't fair.
Elsewhere, Eldon Carter was rushing through the parking lot of an independent research lab, headed for his red SUV. He'd nearly got there when five or six police cars closed in from all sides, lights and sirens going at full, screeching blast.
Swallowing hard, Eldon dropped his briefcase, which contained enough stolen information and grand designs to put him away for about a hundred concurrent life sentences.
"I demand a lawyer," he snapped, as the cops swarmed out of their exhaust-and- burnt-rubber wreathed vehicles. "No comment till I see a lawyer!"
He did not resist arrest, confident that Drake or Fielding would soon find a way to spring him from prison. Out in a Kansas Tracy Aerospace office, however, James Endicott fled from his desk and malfunctioning computer, running like a terrified rabbit.
Made it as far as the second floor, taking the echoing concrete-and-metal back stairs three at a time. Then he ran into a solid wall of uniformed TA security guards. They were friends of the men who'd gone down defending Virgil and Grandma Tracy, and they weren't in a good or forgiving mood.
"Help!" screamed the traitor, turning to flee back the way he'd come. Sgt. Lara Macready's taser gun made sure that he didn't get very far, leaving James Endicott in a twitching, urine-soaked heap on the floor.
Drake Pleasance was the only one who avoided capture. More or less. He didn't know it yet, but every electronic item… every flash drive, cell phone and PDA he'd salvaged from his storefront office… was deeply infected with Ice-9. It was only a matter of time.
XXX
Wichita Airport, in the corporate jet lounge-
Scott heard Cindy's words, like he heard the TV, but he didn't grasp them at first.
"…that guy I was telling you about? The ex-con with a grudge? He's been setting up to attack Tracy Aerospace, and some of the dirt I've dug up indicates that he knows about your, um… other connection."
Her upturned face was pale and pretty in dawn's rising light; exactly like someone who hadn't slept for loving him and worrying. Her voice was quiet and hard as a police detective's, though, and she kept right on talking, whether Scott wanted to hear this, or not.
"One of his contacts works for a research firm out near Dodge City, producing plans and prototypes for very small and powerful bombs. The plane that blew up…? Scott, you with me?"
"Yeah," he replied after a moment, fighting the urge to climb a tall tree and pull it up after him. "I'm listening. Go ahead."
She leaned over to give him a comforting hug.
"According to the news, that was a mail plane from Tahiti to Tracy Island. It was nearly to your place when it blew up, Scott, and something tells me you're about to have a horde of federal crash investigators combing that island paradise of yours, looking for evidence."
Scott didn't say anything at first, staring sightlessly out through the big plate glass window at runways and rumbling aircraft. Then he sighed,
"Cin… we may need your help on this one. And, uh… for whatever it's worth, I still love you. Just wanted to get that out in the open. Take it or leave it."
Cindy Taylor grinned up at the tall, weary pilot.
"Wow. Master of the romantic moment, that's you all over. Well, once I've dried the tears of joy and calmed my fluttering heart, I'll see what I can do to get the press off your collective asses. (Except for Pooky-bear's. Him, they can have.) Won't be easy to fend them off; there's nothing a newshound loves more than the scent of fresh blood and scandal… but I'll try."
Then, impulsively, she kissed his pale cheek, where the scratchy beard shadow was just coming in. Not exactly a declaration of throbbing passion, but something to work with. They left the lounge together a few minutes afterward, both on their phones and talking in low, rapid tones; Scott to Dr. Hackenbacker, Cindy to Jake Hall, out in the WNN San Francisco news office.
XXX
Tracy Island-
TinTin Kyrano came to herself with a sharp gasp and a mighty convulsing of cramped, bloodless muscles. It was almost a shock, seeing about her the soft and familiar things of her room; finding herself striped in golden-red light from the iron-barred windows. Not much further could she feel or see, however, for her mental senses had retracted as sharply as an over-stretched elastic band. Bon, TinTin decided. Ordinary girls made do with sight and sound, taste, touch and scent. So might she.
Overhead, the ceiling fan whispered in slow, lazy circles, stirring the air. Dust motes drifted before her in glittering, perfumed arabesques. Outwardly, despite what she'd faced in that place between worlds, nothing had changed. Then her phone rang, surprising a small yelp from the girl. The number was unknown to her, but she'd already guessed who was calling.
"Allo?" she said softly, picking up.
"TinTin! Are you…? I mean… everything all right, over there?"
"Yes, Gordon. I am well enough, now. Thank you for asking."
"Right. Just checking, because there's been some awfully weird stuff going on, over here, and… Well… for awhile there, I thought you were kind of… sort of…"
TinTin couldn't help smiling at the swimmer's graceless verbal floundering. Sometimes, he could be very dear.
"You thought that you heard me, inside of your head?" she suggested, gazing out through her window at big, noisy parrots and slow-shutting flowers.
"Sumthin' like that, yes."
"I was there, indeed, attempting to help."
"Oh. Right. Saved my life, did you?"
TinTin smiled, curling a bit deeper into her pink velour bean-bag chair.
"Not alone, Gordon. Alain was required as well, to prevent you from answering a call which would have ended your life."
Over the phone line, Gordon made a sudden rude snorting noise.
"I'll be sure to thank him properly, whenever he gets free of the Grandma-detective crossfire. Seems like somebody's been in their heads, too, and now they're working backward, trying to figure out what's happened. Good luck to them is all I can say. Details are bit murky on my end, too. Did you hear, though…? Dad and Virgil are awake! Snapped right out of it, about the time we all piled into the ladies' restroom. They've been trying to get out of bed, shouting something about warehouses and Lady Penelope."
TinTin nodded, though Gordon could not see her gestures or smiles.
"Yes… I expected that they would, but I thank you for calling and telling me so, Gordon, and for checking to be sure that all is well."
It was, perhaps, an opening. Said Gordon, all in a breathless rush,
"You're welcome, but that's not all, or… not the only reason I called. You see…"
Just then, with timing right out of a Hollywood movie script, somebody began hammering upon the girl's bedroom door.
"TinTin!" this somebody shouted, sounding like Brains. "TinTin, are y- you inside? Th- There's been an accident! C- Come quick!"
