Heh! Almost done! Thanks for your generous patience. :)

49

Mars, 700 FN, on the flight deck of neo-Thunderbird 7-

"We ain't gonna make it, are we?" mused Captain Taylor, almost conversationally. Having done all that lay in their power for sixteen long days, three bone-weary men paused to rest. Their huge, silver Bird hovered between engine A (completed) and B (nearly done). Engine C, the triangle's apex, was little more than a gaunt metal skeleton, yet, and nowhere near ready to fire.

Much of Mercury's core had been mined clear through, with blizzards of nanites still working away at top speed… but Taylor could count. There were four days left of their deadline, and too much remained to be done. He'd been sent from Earth in the future-version of Thunderbird 7 to speed matters up, but it didn't look good. Not by a longshot.

The sunbaked surface of Mars glittered grey-red, far below them. Alongside their ship, colossal towers of metal and circuitry rose from planet to space, casting shadows that speared the horizon. Sizzling jets of bright energy streaked from the solar collectors to plasma banks encircling each massive thruster. But it wasn't enough. Not nearly enough… and they knew it.

On the flight deck beside Lee, John Tracy slumped in the copilot's seat. Brains huddled further back; a haggard shadow haunting 7's main tech station. Mini-Max buzzed around overhead, meanwhile, chirping unheeded encouragement.

Hackenbacker cleared his throat, saying,

"Not n- necessarily, Captain. We c- could still, ah… still d- double the n- nanite replication rate."

But John shook his head.

"We need that mass to complete the last thruster, Brains. At this point, more nanites 'll just slow us down. Realistically, there's a chance we could finish B on schedule… maybe even the framework for C…"

"B- But we need three f- fully functional thrusters, spaced just s- so, or the entire scheme falls to, ah… to p- pieces," finished the exhausted engineer. And everyone knew what that meant. Without three mighty engines, they couldn't shift Mars. Sure, they could still simply transfer the colonists back to Earth, but for what? A lifetime of drifting in lightless space, trapped under miles of ice? Or a bare, scorched existence on Proxima B? Maybe go back to the past, changing the timeline still further? And then, what about Alan? Would Mars-Net restore him and all those vaporized others, if they had to abandon plan A?

Lee shifted around in his seat, some; chewing his gum and thinking. Like Jason and Doc, he'd put in a long string of brutal, twenty-hour days; eating on the go and sleeping just enough not to collapse. Grim situation, but everything's funny (and possible) when you're completely wrung out; hung by the jewels from one last, fraying thread.

"Awright," said the pilot, reaching across to pull a few beers from his well-stocked armrest. "Let's hold up an' think f'r a minute. S'pose you boys finish two a' them engines, but don't got a third. Well, h*ll… look around. We're sittin' in a fancy, FTL Bird here, ain't we?"

Indeed, they were. A softly-vibrating, super-fast spaceship designed by an older and far more experienced Brains. His companions turned in their seats to face him more squarely; Jase sitting up straight, as the implications of that little statement hit home. Doc started talking again, his words a rapid, excited tumble.

"Correct, C- Captain! Th- This version of 7 contains an Alcubierre Drive! She can w- warp space itself, to achieve, ah… achieve f- faster than light travel!" It was how Lee had gotten there in the first place, after all. Doc looked like a kid who'd just opened a small, shabby gift box containing the keys to an Ultra-Z racer. Jase, like he'd just been released from prison.

"Burn both thrusters at max power," Jason cut in, unstrapping to surge to his feet and start pacing. "Shift the Bird's A-Drive range, so that space collapses in front of Mars and expands behind, while we slot 7 in where the missing engine should be and then… I dunno. Pray."

Brains started laughing, mashing his face against one spread, shaking hand.

"I s- suspect that this is a t- terribly misguided plan," he mumbled, accepting a can of cold beer.

"That's because y'r not drunk enough, Doc," quipped Lee, flipping the third frosted can over to Jase. "It'll work, 'cause it's got to. You boys fix that third site up as a big, solid brace. Me, Mike an' 7, here, 'll get in there an' push. Whut th' h*ll, it's worth a try, ain't it?"

John drained his beer in two rapid swallows, feeling better, already.

"I don't have any brighter ideas," he answered. "And I'd rather fail trying something, even if it falls short and we have to scramble."

Brains had leapt straight into planning mode; muttering to himself as he called up and manipulated a hovering flock of virtual data screens; plotting lapse functions, shift vectors and (when reminded by John) mapping a planet-side hypersurface. But John had another concern.

"I'll need to get in touch with my inverse number, down there," he told them, jerking a thumb out the viewscreen at Mars. "Those colonists live underground. Moving the whole d*mn planet is going to cause massive quake damage. We'll need to get them transported to Thunderbird 7, along with whatever they can't do without. There's not enough bubble-wrap in the galaxy for this moving job."

Lee snorted, then smoothed out his moustache.

"Guess I'll have ta set up more cots an' put on some coffee," he joked. "Hope they're real partial ta space rations, 'cause that's all we got besides beer. Mike! Ya hear that?" he called to the robot, over one shoulder. "We got a few hunnert guests on th' way. Spruce th' place up."

Of course, there was only so much that John's "inverse number" could do. The astronaut hesitated to call for Maintenance-2, knowing that his clone would be formed and pressed back into service for twelve hours, at most. Then, the hapless organic construct would simply die, having an incomplete set of organs, and no way to metabolise food. Only, there wasn't much of a choice.

John used his exopod to return to the surface, swooping down past the enormous neutronium pillar of engine A; an object so heavy and vast that the crust was deformed, and Mars had started to tumble. On the way, he signaled local authority that he wanted to file a progress report. Done and done. The cloned maintenance bot met with him down by the nearest flare-shelter, a low, domed structure, half-buried in Martian rock. Both men wore spacesuits and helmets, but John brought his clone inside, preferring to speak without comms.

Once the airlock cycled shut, and their helmets came off, he began to explain, gesturing Maintenance-2 into a seat and then ordering coffee.

"We've got a new plan," John told him, "and it may even work, but we'll need to get your people off-world. Shifting Mars is going to pancake every last one of their underground shelters, because this is gonna get rough. There's no time for a soft, easy push. Thunderbird 7-plus has plenty of room and supplies, and we can hold your people up there for the entire Big Shove. What d'you think?"

Maintenance-2 could have communicated directly with the Red Planet's guardian mainframe rather than offer opinion. Instead, he leaned forward, elbows on knees and said,

"There remains an unstated complication, John Tracy. The colonists have not yet been told what is happening. They are midway through their training cycle, at present. Approximately twelve years of age."

"All of them?" John demanded, eyebrows rising.

"Yes. They were formed together on the same day, January first, and have been raised as a group, training for various needed jobs according to inclination and aptitude. At present, they have completed basic skills and survival, along with prime scholarship. They have no idea what has happened to Earth, what lies ahead for Mars, or that you have come here to save them."

John blinked at his look-alike, sliding beads around on the frame in his head.

"Right," he breathed gustily. "Well, the easy way's overrated, anyhow, and most kids enjoy a change of pace. Question is, will Mars-Net go for the plan?"

The red-haired clone shrugged, a gesture he'd learnt from John.

"As opposed to failing in its mission to provide the Undying with servants? I cannot say. All I can do is transfer your request, John."

Possibly, the astronaut should have paused to consult with his father and Scott, out there on distant, lost Earth. But time was short, and a man had to make his own choices. Roll his own lethal dice.

John nodded, folding both arms across his broad chest.

"Do it," he ordered. "What 've we got left to lose?"