Seriously. I'm almost through! Thanks, ED, Tikatu and Mitzy, for reading and reviewing. Replies are forthcoming, I promise.

37: Calculated Risk

Mars, in the concrete-walled rover workshop, Bldg. 3-

There comes a point where you either move forward, or give in to fear. Where you proceed (teeth clenched to still them, palms wiped repeatedly) or retreat, clutching excuses around you like blankets.

For John Tracy, fear was an abstract concept, like love, rage or embarrassment; a collection of physical sensations and juxtaposed, battling stimuli. Often, he did not even know what to call it, and so wound up classifying the emotion as mild indigestion or nausea. In any event, Scott's all-purpose phrase for situations like these was: Make it happen. So, he did. More or less.

The blond tech-rep (and second-rate, backdoor astronaut) took a firmer grip on his diagnostic scanner and strode for that warped computer station. At his back stood a woman… his woman… with her weapon primed and ready. Not that she could protect him from anything nasty that a swarm of routed aliens might have installed in the base computer system. No one could do that. Just that she was very much willing to try. (A fact which sparked certain warm feelings, starting with the pit of his stomach and headed south… but this was not the best time to be thinking of sex, maybe.)

Something caught his eye as John stepped past a bent, twisted chair; just at the edge of his vision, out of place and skittery-swift. Something was retreating hurriedly into shadow, off to the left a ways.

Primes alone couldn't handle this one. So, he considered, instead, the cardioid, a beautiful, heart-shaped figure produced by graphing the polar equation: r = a (1- cos Theta). And then… somewhat steadied… John Tracy turned a bit, swinging around to more directly face that barely-glimpsed something, in front of the workshop's tool-and-spare-parts room. Dr. Bennett spoke sharply. Warning him again, no doubt, but he pushed that aside, thinking,

'Just what the hell did they leave behind?"

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Outside, amid steaming wreckage and flurried snow-

Kim Cho would have gone closer. The massive power-suit was missing both legs and most of one arm. Its battery pack should have failed long before, considering all of the energy being expended by the trapped, twitching machine. But somehow, the mauled power-suit continued to struggle.

Snow drifted through the compromised overhead dome, falling from swag-bellied clouds to raise bright, noisy sparks whenever a flake struck exposed wiring. Torn metal shrieked across concrete, filling the air with dust and electrical smoke.

Always a deeply empathic person, Cho could not escape the feeling that this mutilated power-suit was not just alive, but in pain. She tried to step forward, meaning to help, but Roger prevented her.

"Kimmy, no! If it's alive, I'm betting it's also dangerous and vengeful. Remember the bars and wires, back there? Don't get too close. If nothing else, all that thrashing around could tip the crane over."

Or… as the power-suit's remaining hand groped along the crane boom for useable parts... it could start to rebuild itself. Roger and Cho looked on, startled, as cable and struts were torn from the crane and rapidly incorporated by the fallen machine. Their comms went off repeatedly, giving vent to shrill beeps and bursts of wild static. Decision time.

"Pete!" The worried Marine shouted into his glitching belt comm. "Commander McCord!"

"Go ahead, Thorpe." The short, red-haired officer had wandered into a launch pad fire-control station some time before. He was no longer in direct eye- or hearing-range.

"Skipper, I think you need to come out and have a look at this."

"Be right there. What's the trouble?"

"Uh… we got us a live one, Pete, and it's definitely trying to put itself back together."

"Copy that. Fall the hell back, maintain surveillance from a safe distance, and sound a general alarm. Where there's one, there may be more."

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Earth, beside a bustling, military co-opted, rail station-

Gordon Tracy had bidden farewell to TinTin Kyrano; an awkwardly warm, fumbling moment he'd remember for the rest of his life. Drawing the lass aside (while Virgil bargained like a barrow-man for transport) he'd said,

"Right. I'll be off, then. Look after Alan and Fermat, Angel, if you'd not mind overmuch… but also look after y'rself. Sometimes, believe it or not, TinTin Kyrano deserves t' come first."

First... as she'd always counted with him. He'd already given the dark-haired beauty his each and every Olympic medal. The awards were hers, along with an unwanted heart. Settled the matter ages ago, they had. Settled, and moved on. Yet… after spending so much time in her company, experiencing TinTin's warm touch and soft voice… the red-haired sailor found himself wishing and wanting, all over again.

So, he'd leant in to kiss her ivory-gold cheek. She turned her face slightly, though, as if surprised, and it was TinTin's red, parted mouth he scored upon, instead. That made a genuine kiss, one which neither of them broke, for several long seconds. When they did pull away, it was with racing hearts and tightly clasped hands.

She'd said something, then, all in a tumbling, mellifluous rush. Gordon squeezed both her small hands in his own and replied,

"TinTin, I don't speak bloody French. Never 'ave, never shall." (A lie, that, as he'd certainly been taking the odd lesson from his Francophone shipmate, Jean Parrish.)

She'd blushed a bit, and then ducked her head to press a reddening brow against his left shoulder.

"I said that I shall take care," mumbled her small and musical voice, warming clear through his shirt to the skin beneath, "but that you, my bold heart, must do likewise. For I shall miss you terribly, all the days you are gone."

Very fortunately, Gordon's muscles locked up. Elsewise, he'd have tossed her into the air, caught the lass and then spun her wildly about. No, indeed; an entire heartbeat and a half transpired before TinTin sailed upward and then landed again, safe in the embrace of her battered, ecstatic young man.

The long ride to San Diego, afterward, he scarcely noticed; automatically responding with his name, rank, service and serial number when confronted with check-stations and vigilant guards. He'd got quarantined, of course, directly outside of the city. But the doctors and corpsmen seemed more concerned that Gordon not prove to be alien-possessed than that his health be entirely perfect. Again, fortunately.

At any rate, he did pass the physical/ mental exam, receiving clearance at last to rejoin his commander and shipmates aboard Mako. Their planned cruise would be relatively short; steaming halfway across the Pacific to Sea Base Gamma, and then outward from there, in search of Mysteron-controlled vessels and aircraft.

Aboard were Commander Blake Moll, Lt. Commander Anwynn Norris, Lt. Gordon Tracy (the sub's Skydiver pilot), Petty Officer Jean Parrish and Seaman First Class Laura Marks. Their boat was well armed, very fast and (as Alan would have put it) highly sneaky. All things considered, the crew were as well equipped and briefed as anyone could have been, for what was to come. Like everything else in life, what they faced was a calculated risk against quick-shifting odds.

But, as for Alan and Fermat, back on the Island…