Moshi-moshi! =) Figure it's time to mention that I don't own anything here except love for these characters and vehicles. And, hey, thanks for the good idea, Bow Echo! ;) The way that you referred to a "certain someone" has definitely coloured the scene. Edits and replies are forthcoming, Scout's honour.

51

Mars, 700 FN, far below the red planet's scorched surface-

John took a mental and physical half step backward, more startled than he should have been. Hadn't Maintenance-1 accused them of co-opting Mars-Net's icon?

Nevertheless, the hard-light image taking shape in that glitching blue holo came as a sudden, cold-water shock. All the skipping and sparks in the world couldn't conceal whose shape the Undying had hijacked to keep generations of servants in line.

The figure that formed there was dad's; Jeff Tracy, as he'd looked when exploring Mars, back when 'Captain' Tracy was not much older than Scott. Dark brown hair, unlined face, tanned flesh and stern, alpha-male presence… The dad that John and his brothers had spent their whole lives looking up to and striving to match.

Mars-Net had gotten his voice right, even; the deep, smoky bass that swayed hearts and pirated boardrooms. More than that, the electronic avatar wore a white GDF spacesuit with appropriate medal and rank insignia, apparently taken from publicity vids of the very first Mars mission.

John glanced over at Maintenance-2, who seemed as utterly mesmerized as that crowd of waiting children. The astronaut felt the image's power, as well, but struggled to fight it. This wasn't his father. Wasn't Jeff Tracy, but something tarted up in Dad's stolen image, created to stifle dissent.

John felt his muscles bunch up. He started forward, only to have Maintenance-2 block his way with an out-flung arm and swift, warning look. Though his clone remained silent, the message was clear: Don't.

So, yeah… what now? The situation was impossibly thorny and tense. He'd come here to prevent four hundred kids from being squashed like gnats in the pages of a roughly slammed book. Necessary, because shifting Mars out of its death-spiral was going to flatten these caverns and everything in them. That much was your usual clear-cut and obvious rescue. Less certain was what he should do, after getting them out to Thunderbird 7.

According to Maintenance-2, the current setup would end with these same cloned children being killed and recycled, once they turned twenty-five. Okay, so John was an IR space pilot and not some GDF peacekeeper. Was he supposed to just walk away and let the poor kids grow up to be murdered? What was the right course of action?

The false Jeff did not acknowledge John's presence through all this. Instead, it focused its will on that crowd of silent, enraptured preteens.

"Colonists of generation 7-B," it began, in a subtly amplified voice. Backed up by subsonic stimulation, the words seemed almost to come from within the hearer's own head; soothing, explaining, commanding. "Like the brave parents who gave rise to you all, before returning to the stars at the call of their Undying masters, you have worked, trained and grown strong. You have struggled to prove yourselves worthy to follow in your parents' bold footsteps."

Those eager young listeners nodded as one, unconsciously sitting up taller in their seats. With its audience firmly gripped in the palm of its hand, the hard-light construct continued, saying,

"You have every right to be proud of your own efforts… But now is a time of great testing, over and above that faced by any, before. Your beloved homeworld has been drawn too near to its sun and shall soon be completely devoured. And yet, all is not lost. Not now, and not ever, so long as brave hearts and clear minds prevail. The Undying have sent aid from another timeline; beings shaped like their servants, possessing a spaceship capable of lifting you off-world to safety. A vessel empowered by them to return this planet to its original orbit."

Any regular mob of twelve-year-old kids would have erupted with questions and noises by that point; leaping from their seats and gasping aloud or hollering comments. Not this lot. Trained from cloned 'birth' to obey, the children leaned forward, some, but said nothing at all. Their pale eyes reflected that bluish holo-field light right back at its source, making the audience seem to shine like moonlit sparkles on seawater.

"Your parents had to reach twenty-five and graduate training before being sent onward to glorious service," said Mars-Net, "...but their fate is not yours. You shall leave this honoured facility now, seeing and doing what none before you have even imagined."

The hard-light icon gestured and paced like a holo-vid actor, crossing the dais front as it ranted. Looking first into this face, then that one, Mars-Net seemed to connect with every thrilled child in the meeting room.

Disoriented, John shook his head. When and how had they stolen Dad's genome, he wondered? During his GDF service? Later, after the arrest and trials mentioned by Maintenance-1? Seven hundred years made that a very cold case, but however they'd formed it, Dad's icon kept talking; persuasive as serpents with fruit.

"Your Undying masters and heroic parents would expect no less from their children than courage, endurance and obedience, even as the setting shifts. Always remember the values and teaching that have made you the greatest generation in living memory. Seal your minds against whispering lies, and your hearts against doubt. Recall your purpose, and the will of the Undying: those whose greatness and immortality commands your eternal obedience. The Masters create. The Masters provide. The Masters shall one day return. Until then, we grow, we strive, we learn, and we graduate. Is it not so?"

"It is so!" came the thundering unison response of four hundred voices. Even Maintenance-2 whispered those words, from between his clenched teeth. Some of the children were crying, John noticed, causing wandering tracks of reflected blue light to course down their cheeks. All around him, the big stone meeting room pulsed with emotion and fervor. He'd never seen anything like it.

Then Maintenance-2 went suddenly still, whispering,

"Go forward. You are commanded to appear at the icon's left side, remaining a pace behind it throughout your introduction. Move."

At its left? A pace behind? Screw that, decided John, feeling his mental hackles rise. He hadn't come down here to prop up some brainwashing, shape-stealing virtual dictator. He was here to save lives; now, and in thirteen more years.

Instead of obeying instructions, the stubborn redhead (a true son of his mother) started across that stone platform diagonally, intending to move out in front of his father's shadow and pound in a few basic home-truths. Meant to, anyhow.

He never got a chance, because Mars-Net had anticipated John's rebellion. It produced the ghost of his father's wide smile, and then made a quick, slight gesture. At its signal, somebody else moved into the bluish-pale light: Maintenance-S.

Kayo Kyrano-Tracy crossed the platform and then turned to face John. His sister, down to her slanted green eyes, gymnasts' build and sleek dark hair. Or, Kayo, almost.

Along with Tin-Tin's beauty and grace, the female maintenance clone had all of her psionic power, warped to the service of something quite other.