Hi, there. Thank you, as always, for reading. Lord willing and the creek don't rise, my next post will arrive from Yokosuka, Japan. Going to visit my daughter. :') Edits accomplished.

21

Amid the branching pathways of three very tense situations-

The Island's barren leeward side had been kitted out as a "coming in hot" emergency landing strip. That way, with an extinct volcano between Island Base and any half-controlled incoming Birds, damage would be kept to the absolute minimum. Scott Tracy wasn't concerned about his approach, though. It was landing that might be a problem.

Brains' uploaded repair code had helped the maintenance bots to straighten that crumpled front skid, but it was still very weak, and he knew it; liable to fail at any one of those recent bend-points. Faced with that knowledge, Scott had a choice to make. Burn up fuel like his tanks had no bottom, coming in gentle, slow and horizontal… or try for a vertical, tail fin descent.

Thing was, sometimes one idea seemed better, sometimes the other. Using up crap-tons of rocket fuel meant none left for a second attempt if, say, a sudden updraft slammed him off course.

On the other hand, without the hangar's guidance system locked in, a tail-first approach required iron nerves and crazy precision. He could do it… had done, in sim… but maybe not when physically spent and emotionally drained. It had been one h*ll of a day, and Scott was still second-guessing himself; still battling the shakes over how close they'd come to losing Gordon, back in Peru.

Thunderbird 1 howled westward, still off comm, because Scott needed think-time . Long before Tracy Island crested the horizon, her towering cap of white clouds and wheeling seabirds, the lightening ocean and altered wave-patterns betrayed her presence. Even off auto-guidance, he'd have known he was almost home.

Then he spotted the island, itself; green and black and trailing white clouds like a veil. Almost unconsciously, the pilot began to relax; thinking of half-decent food and hot showers. Then, between one breath and the next, Scott's view of glimmering ocean and golden sunshine disappeared utterly. All at once, he was blind; seeing nothing but a pair of slitted yellow-green eyes. His head seemed to smash like a melon dropped from a third-story window, as someone else began working his limbs and his voice like a puppet.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Thunderbird 2, speeding for Perth, Australia-

International Rescue had never been meant to serve as a law enforcement agency. In those early days, their restraint systems were limited to sealed hatches, knotted bungie cords and very tight seat straps. Not too tough for a determined group of prisoners to squirm their way out of. First, Haven's director pulled free of his bonds, losing some skin in the process. Then, one at a time, he released the rest of the Council, helping them to stand on that shifting metal deck.

They'd been stuffed into a forward auxiliary storage space, surrounded by a pirate's hoard of construction equipment and exo-suits. Now, pitching his reedy voice just loudly enough to be heard over engine noise and vibration, the Director spoke to his six companions.

"Haven lives on, so long as her council survives. What we accomplished in the mountains of Peru may be done again, better. All we have to do is seize this vessel from her crew while they expect no trouble. Then, gentlemen, we shall reclaim our remaining people and create a new home."

He stood erect, grey head lifted high on his scrawny neck, rubbing the feeling back into his hands and arms. The others closed into a half-circle facing their leader; mimicking their arrangement at Council.

"No prisoners," said his right-hand man, angrily straightening crumpled green robes. "Those without pure intent must die, to cleanse the path for the right-thinking faithful."

There were nods and mutters of assent, as the rest worked to smooth away signs of degrading capture and binding. Smiling coldly, the Director said,

"Our pilot survives long enough to ferry us to Site B. The rest die just as soon as their throats may be cut. No quarter, and no direct confrontation, gentlemen. There must be no alarms and no warning, until we have opened the cockpit."

The Council's youngest member, a fierce-eyed man with a bit of brown still left in his hair, held a hand up for attention, saying,

"A hostage, perhaps, to properly motivate our pilot? I have just the right one in mind."

This notion stirred up some heated debate, ending at last in a vote. Then, with their plans made and repurposed weapons in hand, Haven's council left the storage compartment, bent upon freedom and savage revenge.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Space, in parking orbit near a large and slow-turning warehouse-

Alarms and lights started up and cut off with machine-gun speed. Systems all over the spaceship flared and then silenced, as John Tracy fought to wrest Thunderbird 3 away from an unseen intruder. On the bright side, he'd got a sneaky and sudden idea.

Might not work, but he'd have gone down trying something, even if the situation went utterly pear-shaped. Glancing across the cockpit at his busy kid brother, John grunted,

"Sorry, Al."

Alan's blond eyebrows climbed his pale forehead. Frowning slightly, he demanded,

"Sorry for what?"

"Wrecking your Christmas present."

…which would have been perfect, had John not needed a speedy and left-handed weapon. See, if it was the Mechanic onboard, then his interface with Thunderbird 3 was direct and personal. In a very real sense, the cyborg had connected his mind to the spaceship, and that made him vulnerable… But only to something completely unexpected, and maybe for not very long.

Right about the time that Al blurted, "Huh?" and Kayo started firing questions, John whipped out and uploaded the best d*mn game he'd ever coded: Toxic Annihilation. Took about fifteen seconds to complete the file transfer and then click "open"; actions he disguised by setting up firewalls and launching some desperate-seeming countermeasures.

Distraction was key, until that immersive, semi-autonomous game code had a chance to bridge the gap between Thunderbird 3 and the arrogant bastard who'd gone in and taken her over. Alan would have needed full VR sensory gear and a haptic suit to receive the total experience, but the Mechanic had all that built in. He was a cyborg, making him subject to all the ills that flesh-bonded-with-metal is heir to. (Like a completely immersive, coded reality.)

John had designed the game to sneak in; to take you believably from where you were now, to utter, apocalyptic disaster. Better yet, he could view the player's responses, and edit; leading that unwelcome guest the h*ll off their Bird and into GDF custody. If only it worked. If only transfer was seamless enough that the Mechanic didn't guess what was happening.

Yeah. Needing to make it look good, John typed out,

'for the safety of all aboard, do not disturb the locked container in med-center storage.'

Then, all he could do was to wait.