Nearing the conclusion. Thank you, Tikatu, Bow Echo, Creative Girl, Whirl Girl, Susan and guest!

35

London's New Town, in the former U.K.-

He'd stolen ordinary clothing, while the body's face, damaged by the power and spite of the thing within it, was barely recognizable. Only those piercing blue eyes still looked like Robert Steele's. The rest could have passed for any abused small-time criminal, anywhere.

He'd claimed himself a small plywood and blue-tarp shanty on one of the ancient, crowded bridges over the Thames. Unworthy of his greatness, and filled with sharp, foul miasmas, but a place to begin.

As he was animating the deteriorating shell of General Steele, the Hood had access to the man's remaining memories. He knew what was happening on Mars, and who had been chosen to sneak along with Jeff Tracy's shuttle. Knew what they'd earn for making sure that he died. As the Typicals would put it, 'piece of cake' to make contact with the two young assassins, and then alter the bargain.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Tracy Island, late afternoon-

In hindsight, there were more steps involved, but things turned so ugly, so fast, that no one remembered them. Certainly not Virgil, or Brains.

Grandma had gotten their guests assembled on the mud-and-debris littered pool deck, while Virgil outside, and Lee Taylor at the control center, directed the GDF transport's safe landing. Professor Moffat was aboard, giving Brains one last, wonderful reason to celebrate (and knocking his glasses askew) before all hell broke loose.

The patch of airstrip that Virgil and Josh had cleared off was just big enough for the aircraft, which came down in a humming roar of impellers, causing waves of distortion that made the house and mountain seem to wiggle and dance. Scared that flock of budgies and gulls to the other side of the island, too.

Scott, rubbing his blue-gloved hands together, was a man transformed.

"One down," he said to Virgil, as they watched the transport thud heavily down onto tarmac. "Let's get these people loaded up, Virge, and then start clearing the Prototype's launch path. Dad needs us, on Mars."

The newsfeeds had mentioned explosions and seismic shockwaves, on a planet with no geologic activity. Whatever was going on, up there, wasn't an accident. Virgil nodded, stepping out of the way, as an orderly file of rescued observers and military people went past.

One of them, a stout, greying sergeant in uniform, gave him a wink as she marched on by, still holding a folded red-and-white tablecloth.

Scott looked mystified. Wasn't that one of Grandma's best picnic-table covers? But Virgil just reddened and shook his head.

"Never mind, Scott. Not important," he said hurriedly, looking everywhere but at that ramrod-straight, retreating back. Could have been worse, the pilot thought. A lot worse.

Then, a smaller shuttle arrived, with a much quieter engine, and clean, sleek lines. That one had to land up on the pool deck. Was met by John first, then Virgil. The GDF SecPol were doing a great job of getting everyone loaded up their big, metal ramp, so Virgil excused himself and took off running. Dealing with the brass was Scott's job, after all. Muttering,

"See ya!" he turned and bounded away from the crowded, noisy airstrip, and back to the house. Hadn't had time to tie a red ribbon on anything, but figured that Emma would probably forgive him.

Noticed with half his attention, that John had actually combed his hair and washed up, and was now holding Captain O'Bannon's flight bag. Then, all he saw was Emma, doing her best to look stern and high-ranking. That didn't last long, because Virgil soon swept his woman off the ground and into a ferociously tight embrace. Kissed her, too, uniform or no uniform. She smelled of soap and mint chewing gum, and fitted snug up against him like a puzzle piece.

"Welcome home, Em," he murmured. "I've missed you."

"Mm-hmm. Less talk, more action, Taz."

None of her people were around to see, or she'd have broken his grip a lot sooner, Virgil figured. Instead, Emma was very content to lean into his hug; eyes closed, mouth smiling (when not busy with kisses).

A wave of exhaustion and weakness came over him, suddenly. The first symptom, though he hadn't known it at the time. Then it passed, leaving Virgil Tracy free to escort the woman he loved, inside. Maybe John was doing the same with O'Bannon. Virgil honestly didn't know. Too busy… and then increasingly weak.

Dinner that night was rough, because he couldn't eat a thing. Was seeing double, and aching all over, too. Emma worried… females always worried… but Virgil insisted that he'd only caught cold, and pushed the food around on his plate, almost too sick to think. Then the chills and fever struck, hard. Emma and Ridley were frantic, for some reason blaming themselves.

By nine o'clock that evening, he and John both had collapsed in the grip of a horrific and fast-acting illness. Then Scott, because he came to the infirmary to find out what was going on. Then Alan, who'd rushed over to get the news from his brother.

Only Gordon didn't come down with the thing, because he'd stalked off when the first transport showed up, and went down to the beach. Grandma called him on the wrist comm, just as her Tadpole was headed back home; still sticky with seawater, in his board shorts and towel.

"Gordon, stay away from the house!" she told him, rigid with worry. "Go on out ta Tracy 1, Tad, an' wait f'r further instructions. Y'r brothers are sicker 'n I've ever seen, since Kansas. Understand me, Baby? Stay away!"

"But…" the aquanaut objected. Only, at that point, he was talking to himself. Grandma's image was already gone. In the background, Gordon had heard coughing, beeping machinery and the frantic shouts of a med crew, fighting to save lives. He stood on the storm-littered beach for a moment or two, wondering whether to listen to Grandma, or rush in and help. He was a medic, after all; the best they had. And his family needed him. Or, he could just end up giving them one more awful headache to deal with. As the ocean roared behind him, and the stars blinked uncaring and cold overhead, Gordon Tracy made up his mind.

Back at the house, the "fever" was out of control, leading to respiratory distress, nausea, convulsions, body aches, coughing, and shock. Weirdly, the sickness… some kind of eerily targeted super-flu, according to Eos… did not attack Grandma, Lee, Kayo, Professor Moffat, or Brains. Didn't infect the new kids, either, except for Cody, a little. All it struck was the boys.

By that night, Brains had an infirmary full of dying patients, and no answers, at all.

XXXXXXXXXX

Same location, far in the future-

He refused to be separated from his unit. Whatever Sharl had to show him, they'd all see together, Sheff figured.

After accepting a hotburger (which tasted about as good as it sounded; like flavour-injected organic paste) the lieutenant commander marshalled his squad, and then followed Sharl through a door in that crumbling rock wall.

"Gotta be back in seven days," he muttered to his second officer. "Six, to be on the safe side. That d*mn rock's headed back where it came from, and we want to be there, when it does."

"Yessir," she nodded, adding, "They, uh… seem pretty harmless, Sheff." Meaning the tall, skinny weirdings.

"So far," he agreed, "But nothing's gone right since we boarded our planes, Lieutenant. Keep your eyes peeled for trouble. Pass it along… quietly."

Inside, he and his crew were brought through a large, mostly empty rock compound. There were very few people around, Sheff noticed, and no children, at all. They hadn't gotten very far along, when Sharl pushed a small device into his hands.

"You are to making images, Sheefold," she told him. "The Words are saying so, in the final directives."

"Uh-huh," he replied, taking the slim, silver square from her hands. "I'd like to see those 'Words'… and how d'you use this thing?"

She looked surprised, then mimed holding the square up before her face, and squeezing its edges. Right. Seemed easy enough. No moving parts that he could see, but when the lieutenant commander held the thing up between himself and Sharl, it became transparent, with bright, shifting symbols on one side of its screen. Sheffield tried squeezing the frame, and was rewarded with a faint chime and blurred image.

"Huh," he grunted. "Doesn't take very good pictures, does it?"

Sharl hesitated, then admitted,

"It is by cause of being not my true form, Honored Sheefold. We are thinking this is to be better, for first travailers. But, the imager knows."

"Um…" he guessed, as they trudged through another wide, vaulted stone gallery. "Better not to see the truth?"

Sharl gave him an anxious glance, whispering,

"It is to be true. Less unsettling, Sheefold. Much has changed, since the blight upon Yrth. But, here is being our trouble. The stepping-across room."

And then she gestured at a big red metal door set in the stone wall, which the lieutenant commander duly imaged. There were symbols stamped on that doorway, but they didn't look like any letters he'd ever seen, except on the camera screen.

"Stepping-across room?" he repeated, moving in for a closer look.

"That is being so. The Words speak highly of your interest in doors and explorations, Honored Sheefold. We are knowing to bring you here."

"I'll bet," he grimaced, "especially if the Tracys wrote 'em down. What's inside that you need help with, Sharl?"

She smiled and ducked her blonde head, seeming all at once shy.

"Truly, it is stating that you speak without layers of guile, Sheefold. Come. I will to be showing you."

Placing her spread, long-fingered hand on a panel at the red door's frame, Sharl caused it to grind slowly open. Inside, was a small room, containing a faintly glowing floor-circle. Pretty clearly, the thing was meant to be stepped on.

"Okay… what 'm I supposed to get from this, Sharl?" he demanded, taking another picture. Behind him, the rest of the crew was craning to see.

"Just that there is being no travel, no communications, any longer. See," she gestured at what he'd taken for a decoration, but now saw was a faintly glittering wall map. "The other domes of Yrth, and her colonies beyond, do not responding. We are left alone, and are being afraid of the why. Please to fixing the stepping-across room, so that we are finding others."

Lieutenant Commander Sheffield made a short, unhappy noise, and rubbed at the back of his neck with one hand.

"I've got an engineer on my crew, Sharl… but I'm not sure he's up to anything like repairing a teleportation room. Where's your tech team? We're going to need to consult."

Once again, Sharl wrung her thin hands.

"We are not understanding the functions, any longer, Honored Sheefold. That is why we are having machines. Only, more and more have being stopped, now."

"So… you've got no comm, no transport, and you don't know how to fix a d*mn busted light bulb," he summarized, a bit rudely.

"How he has truthed!" the bunched weirdings exclaimed. "How he is seeing the trouble. The Words have foretold!"

They seemed pleasant and friendly enough… but what if he couldn't do what they wanted? What if he couldn't repair their machines?