Everytime, it's the little things that get you. Thanks for the reviews, though.
36: Exonosis
An altered jet, speeding westward-
Parker had called them forward, interrupting an awkward exchange between John Tracy and Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward, once lovers. Together, they left the aircraft's rear cabin and hurried up front, where Parker replayed a publicly broadcast message:
"Well done, Thunderbird 3. The decoy and destroy mission has succeeded. Return to base."
There was video, too, of a Harrier V fighter-bomber being blown out of the sky.
"That's bullshit," John grunted, lowering himself into the copilot's seat and snagging a headset, "Why would IR destroy the pick-up plane when we're the ones trying to transfer cargo? Anyone with the IQ of shredded cabbage could see through that one."
Or, so you'd think. The military was reacting as it usually did when attacked; violently. According to the data John collected, Fort Detrick was launching wave upon wave of drone aircraft and helijets, while emergency ground crews pulled their downed personnel off of building cornices, roofs and light poles. Nice. Before he could contact his dad or the base commander, a second message came through, this one live.
"Never forget that our watchers are everywhere. No matter what you attempt, you shall not divert the coming scythe."
Right. John wasted no time commenting on their assailant's lousy dialogue. Instead, squinting against bright, high-altitude sunglow, he acted. Penny's jet had a much larger than normal onboard system, multi-cored and scorpion-quick. His doing, because at one time, they'd been partners. Now, barely leaving Parker sufficient memory to fly with, John bypassed the computer's defenses and got to work.
First, he traced the signal, using a netstat command to find the originating server and map out all linked boxes. From there, it was short few filtering steps to determination-of-target. He'd already memorized the permanent IP addresses of several suspect computers; that Washington Vaio, for instance, and two insecure WorldGov mainframes. All he had to do was mentally overlay their networks. Who contacted more than one of these computers, plus the signaler, and who did they link to? Which cell phones and ID chips did they accept commands from?
Typing away at the plane's keyboard, talking himself through a series of careful questions, John began visualizing a 3D network map, like a spherical, branching fireworks display. Some of the traces were innocent. They didn't lead anywhere that touched on a suspect node. Some zigzagged away to probable couriers, sleeper cells and deep-cover operatives. One led to Penelope, herself. Damn. Of course, he knew that she'd played both sides… but the obvious, clear-as-glass reminder was hard to take. Somebody else might have said that it hurt. Whatever.
"Penny," he called aloud, reaching backward. She was very much there, hovering just behind his seat. Now, the operative placed her left hand in his, getting a brief, habitual squeeze for her trouble.
"What is it that you require?" she asked him, maintaining an almost-even tone.
"Just your hand," …andwhatitcontained He'd uploaded something to her ID chip, back on the Moon; a small and virulent code. Penny had no idea, naturally. John told no-one everything, not even his brothers. So Lady Penelope squeezed back, saying,
"And why, precisely, is my hand now desirable? It cannot be for money or love. You are wealthy beyond my means, quite firmly spurned my earlier proposal, and are married, besides. Why, then, this change of heart?"
What change? The source of confusion was probably obvious, but John was too busy to work it out, just then. Too irritated, as well.
"Stop talking and hold still," he told her. "I need to scan your chip into the reader."
Penelope's hand turned all at once stiff and rejecting, curling to a fist in John's grip.
"But... I see," she whispered to his silver-blond hair and calm profile.
He didn't hear. There was a work of art on her ID chip, vbs.whiplash. More prion than virus, all it did when activated was reconfigure the status of targeted individuals, resetting their chips from 'healthy/ normal' to 'fatally ill/ infectious', and their citizenship from 'good standing' to 'dangerous criminal'.
A few keystrokes transferred this small, dire code, allowing John to pat the hand of his beautiful Trojan horse, and then turn her loose. Penelope retreated, but the freed virus shot like poison through the branching, covert network, nailing each identified agent, from a lowly drink steward at WorldGov headquarters, to the new master of Red Path. No matter who they were... which street or hall they sped through... the screens and kiosks around them went crazy, flashing immediate biohazard warnings and summoning security.
In Vicente Vargas' case, all of the many billboards which lined his escape route converted at once from tea and seafood adverts to shrill red warning signs. An automatic barricade and tire spike panel sprang up, forcing his driver to brake, hard. The limousine fish-tailed, punctured tires smoking, rims sparking. Inside, Vargas was hurled against his seatbelt. The limousine smashed against a concrete divider with force enough to shatter windows and crumple the long hood. Surrounded by gathering fumes, Vargas reached forward to press the call button. Before he could demand an explanation, something else struck.
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San Marcos Island, aboard Thunderbird 2-
TinTin Kyrano held an impatiently squirming toddler against her blue biohazard suit, soothing the girl with word and thought, alike. Calming her. An adult might have blocked TinTin's presence. Small Janie seemed to welcome it, almost as though she were used to the guiding touch of another mind.
"Hush, petite… softly. Maman is working, but shall swiftly return for her little jewel."
Janie's nose wrinkled, sudden laughter flashing through her like a rush of bright bubbles.
"NOT mommy's jewel! Unca Pete says I'm his STINKER!" Then, whining again, "what's mommy doing? Who's that? How come he's sick? Where's daddy? Do we hafta stay on Urf?" And, "I'm hungry, Timpin! Janie hungry. Time to eat now, okay?"
How could anything this tiny be filled with so many questions? TinTin laughed gently in return, her gloved hand stroking the child's golden hair. In truth, she was enjoying contact with Janie's clean little "Froot Loops, hugs and strawberry milk" mind.
"Maman provides aid and comfort to your Uncle Gordon, who is the brother of ton pere. Gordon is ill because there are the people in this world who would do wrong and harm others, and they have made from the blood of maman et papa a very terrible sickness. Poor Gordon was accidentally tested upon in Spain, perhaps with a spray in the air, or tainted drink. Your papa…"
Here, TinTin hesitated. The child's mother was occupied with Gordon and Virgil. Doctor Kim, a sort of maiden aunt, had been called away by Brains. Pete McCord and the big Marine, Roger Thorpe, had gone along, leaving TinTin to mind their baby girl. How was she to tell Janie of her father's mission? How could she explain, without frightening?
"Daddy's okay?" Janie prompted, searching TinTin's face. A little hand came up, trembling with the effort of fighting gravity. Touching the helmet by TinTin's cheek, Janie asked,
"Is daddy's okay, Timpin? You seed him? You could look for daddy, right, Timpin? You could look!"
Forgetting to ask how the child was even aware that such things were possible, TinTin bit her lip and considered. Perhaps… if she was swift, and very quiet…
Releasing her mental guard was akin to loosing a pent breath or relaxing into a tired slouch. One simply freed a different set of "muscles", bit by cautious bit.
Time and space were nothing; mere illusions which TinTin thrust aside as she put forth her mind in search of John Tracy. She felt him soon enough; rigid, bright and diamond-hard against a backdrop of mumbling people and gauzy machines. Was all well?
Having reached him, TinTin drew closer, shifting a bit of her awareness along the slim, pale link that bound them. He did not sense her presence, for TinTin did no more than listen, picking up those thoughts and concerns that were uppermost. Much there was about tracking the hateful Red Path and its fleeing leader, for John had already attacked in his own manner, using sharp, deadly codes. Curious, TinTin followed his thoughts to a crashed limousine, its outlines a hazy shadow in her extended vision. Burning against this tissue-fine barrier were two furious minds, one just a driver. The other…
Gasping, TinTin recoiled from thoughts too vengeful and bloody to endure. Evil, foul and relentless, he was. Vicente Vargas, an aide to Senator Stennis, who… Oh.
Filtered through Vargas' polluted memory, TinTin saw a flashing knife and twitching corpse. She shuddered. Lamar Stennis was dead, killed by the trusted friend who now controlled Red Path. Long live the king.
Not that Vargas rested easy on his stolen perch. Rage, grief and guilt rose to assault her, as did horrible plans for her once-hostaged friends. TinTin clutched hard at the suddenly quiet toddler, whom she'd glimpsed in his thoughts, as well. Like a gushing toilet, he was; like something that had crept from a bucket of reeking sewage, given power and purpose. TinTin panicked.
'Monster,' she thought, attempting to pull free. 'Release me!'
Her mind was powerful, but untrained, and to the end of her days, TinTin would regret what happened next.
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Upstate New York, in a north-bound police cruiser-
Despite himself, Alan's eyes kept wanting to shut. He was dead-dirty-dog-exhausted tired, the kind that came from running, hiding and non-stop worry. Okay, people who wrote stuff about the way-cool outlaw life were, like, retarded.
He sat in the front seat of a warm, stuffy car, beside Sergeant Stewart, a uniformed state trooper. The guy was nice and junk, but talkative as all get-out, with 900 boring stories about struggling oak trees and cozy petting zoos.
Alan's head nodded forward dozens of times, but he jerked awake anyhow because (unless you'd been beat to crap, like John) you weren't supposed to fall sleep on a mission.
Stewart had rubbed some kind of weird-smelling cream on Alan's hands when they first got into the car. To remove any powder residue from the gun, the boy had been told… but he really didn't want to think about what had happened. Whatever, that strange chemical smell and his own will power were the only things keeping Alan Tracy awake. But only just.
He wasn't sure where they were. Long stands of bare trees, branch-filtered sunlight and smooth jazz made it hard to pay attention to the route. Somewhere near Wharton, he guessed, for the big old school was the only place hereabouts with open, un-crowded land.
Time went by, and maybe he'd have fallen completely asleep, but something really confusing happened. Out of nowhere, the radio and dashboard lights began acting up, cutting off Wynton Marsalis to broadcast a loud, flashing alarm.
"Warning! This is a public health alert. Please bring this vehicle to a safe and controlled stop at mile marker 47 and turn off the engine. Warning! This is a public health alert. Driver is unfit to operate vehicle! Authorities have been notified!"
What the huh?
Startled, Alan shot wide awake in a dang quick hurry. Stewart didn't look sick, so why was his car going frickin' insane? More importantly, why was he fumbling with the catch to his taser?
Alan didn't wait around to find out. He and John had talked some, back in the tunnels, enough so that Alan knew they were up against more than just a lone kidnapper. They faced Red Path and a weaponized plague germ, and all bets were off.
Spotting some people by the access road… searchers and newsfolk, looked like… Alan dodged Stewart's wild grab, shoved the passenger door open, and jumped out of a moving car. He tried to land on his feet, but it felt like somebody jerked the road out from under him. He fell hard, and tumbled.
Officer Friendly peeled out, leaving a scared, scraped and stunned kid gasping like a fish by the side of the road. People came rushing up with radios, cameras and search dogs, shouting stuff and pointing cameras in his face. And, believe it or not, just for a little bit, he started to cry.
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