Thanks, Panoply and Cathrl, for your reviews.

38: Interlude

Down below, in a brief, fleeting somewhen-

Three mighty beings contemplated a twist in their game, at a place between Nowhere and Gone. Illumination came from without, from battlefield watch-fires, nuclear decay and the cold gleam of drowned treasure. Entertainment came from the struggle of mortal beings, always enticing to watch and manipulate.

All three were intrigued by the squirming escape of a captured enemy 'piece', which had lengthened what should have been a short and decisive match. Said the icy Hooded One, as he gazed through a portal at the laboring mortals beyond,

"Most unexpected. Most… tantalizing. The slip and catch, the frantic effort, is sweet as blood and torment."

He'd fed well and enjoyed near-victory. What mattered a small delay? The Crowned Skull was next to speak, still digesting the battle, with its dark spells and grievous wounds.

"It was but a taste; a fleeting savor of agony, and I will have more."

Sighed the third of their quorum (ever last; the closer of eyes and drinker of gasps),

"You are foolish; bloating yourselves insensible upon carrion. The end comes, and with it all feasting, all terror, all pain. The worlds will end at last, freeing us to drift and fade and die."

If a demon-lord could ever be thought of as tired, the Queen of the Lost surely was. Tired, empty and bleak beyond redemption. She said,

"Let us hasten the passing, my brothers, for I fain would have peace."

Her companions did not respond directly, for dissent among such as they pierced worlds and ruptured suns. No, dissent was not to be borne… but neither might Entropy be freed to bring about lasting, final calm. Not when they, too, would be extinguished. So, eyeless, they studied her. Voiceless, they planned. And heartless, they acted.

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Antarctica, the new South Pole Station-

As well as they could, Fred Darson's crew kept the presence of Thunderbird 1 and the transfer of a tightly shielded box very secret. The aircraft had arrived in utter darkness, after all, with shrieking winds and rasping snow to cover the noise of her landing. Still, as it must, word got out; and not everyone present was friendly.

That was why, when Scott Tracy lifted off at 6:30 AM, his departure did not go unreported.

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Vatupele, amidst devastating chaos-

Twenty-eight frightened natives were got on board, though it took the combined efforts of Gordon, Virgil, their headman and a hovering, ghostly John to move them. Up the steep ramp and into Thunderbird 2 they went, but slowly and with many backward looks.

Virgil should already have been in the cockpit, engaging his engines and preparing for liftoff. His brother needed assistance, though, and the big pilot would not abandon him. Things happened whenever he left Gordon to his own devices; dangerous, stupid, foolhardy things. For this reason, Virgil Tracy chose to stay put, sharing his oxygen mask and keeping a close eye on Gordon.

He didn't understand the Vatupeleans, nor they him, but through a combination of gestures and nods, he was able to herd them beyond the pod's force-shield. There, it took all of John's diplomacy and the chieftain's command presence to stifle panic, for the people had never set foot in a structure so large or enclosed. Children screamed and women wailed prayers, while their men hurled spears at the curving bulkheads and Thunderbird 4 (luckily, well shielded). Noisy as hell, it was. All at once the huge pod rang like alarm bells and bouncing paint cans at a Tower of Babel pre-school.

"Okay, Spook," Virgil muttered. Raising one hand close to his mouth, he spoke through his wrist comm to John, whose hologram could not actually hear.

"We've packed 'em aboard. Now what? Please tell me you've got some kind of a plan, 'cause if somebody chips the paint job, I'm lowering a damn stasis field. Talk to me, John."

The image's focus shifted. While it continued to spout warrior-soothing platitudes, a lower voice spoke from the wrist comm, saying,

"Go on up, and take Gordon with you; he's too reactive to think straight, right now. Meanwhile, I've been in touch with Kennedy Space Center, and they're willing to donate a wildlife sanctuary for the temporary care and feeding of your, um, 'noble savages'. After that… hell, I dunno. Just get them off-loaded and let our tax dollars do the rest. Maybe someone will risk all to write a PhD thesis on transplanted cannibals."

"Uh-huh." For some reason, Virgil seemed skeptical. "Kennedy it is. Keep 'em calm, John; that's all I ask. Otherwise, Gordon won't have a chance to react, because I'll do it first. We clear?"

"Perfectly. You fly the plane. I'll spread peace, love and understanding."

Less reassuring, still, coming from John. Virgil winced, but followed his older brother's suggestion, leaving all of that chaos and clamor for a nice, quiet cockpit. Less than ten minutes later, Thunderbird 2 was airborne and half of her passengers had fainted dead away.

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Thunderbird 3, in geosynchronous high orbit-

As it happened, Alan was the one who took John's call, because Brains had laid his chair flat to catch a very noisy 'short nap'.

"Five hours, dude? Seriously?"

His brother's pale image nodded, but there was a slight delay, first. Maybe because of the distance, or maybe John was just busy. More importantly, though…

"How 'bout my room? The earthquakes didn't, like, trash it, did they? I mean, my stuff's okay, right? My TVs and junk?"

"Yeah. Far as I know. I've been concentrating on trivial crap like the hangars and generators, Alan. Sue me."

There was another pause, and Alan thought maybe his brother would bring up those pictures, or the fact that he'd told everyone about John's role-playing habit… but no such bad luck. Astro-boy was flat out too busy for real world fighting (with Alan, anyways). So… maybe, y'know… he oughta make the first move? Swallowing hard, Alan started talking.

"Hey, man, listen: I'm sorry, okay? About making my pictures look like you? I just… I look like a kid, and you don't, and I wasn't really thinking. But, hey! Wanna hear my next verse?"

That got John's wary, slit-eyed attention (and dude, nobody did coldly suspicious better than Starman Jones, over there).

"Next verse? Don't tell me I'm writing unconscious love poems, now."

Alan chuckled, lowering his voice when the rhythm of Hackenbacker's snoring altered.

"No, stupid! Nothing like that. It's the 'Tracy Island National Anthem', only I changed the tune for part two, because 'My Country Tis of Thee' is, like, totally last week. This is something I heard on the radio and switched around. It sounds better, too, trust me."

John's image shrugged in its virtual window, glowing against a backdrop of crescent Earth and black space.

"Whatever. Fire away."

Alan grinned and gave John two thumbs up. Then, to the tune of 'It's a Small World', he began to sing (like a dying harp seal, or a very drunk cat).

"Oh, we'll all salute when his flag's unfurled,

And the USA becomes Tracy-World!

When you own what he's got,

America's your parking lot!

It's all Jeff's World, after allllllll…..!"

That woke Brains up, but it got something like a smile out of John, too. So, hey… left-handed apology accepted?

"Yeah. You're an idiot, but I guess we're stuck with you," John told him, almost-smiling. "Five hours till your hangar's open for business, Alan. Tell Hackenbacker as soon as he's coherent. Later."

And, with that, John signed off, muttering, "Tracy-World…!"

Still had the song running through his head when he called their father, en route with the others to New York City. That went well.