Sorry to be so late! Between storms in the gulf, schools opening up and other wild stuff, I've been a little distracted. Thanks for the nudge, El. Edited more. =)

24

Deep in the cloud city, trapped by an endless tangle of maintenance tunnels-

Having clambered around through a giant, dying machine for close to an hour, Al was beginning to think he was being screwed with. Like, on purpose and junk.

He'd found a recharge station for Zippy, his video drone, but that was about the last time that stuff went right. It was hotter than blazes, for one thing, with hatches and bulkheads that kept on shifting positions, herding him all the time further north. Constant noise and vibration rattled his back teeth and spleen. Even worse than just racket, 'cause it wasn't the sound or feel of a healthy and functional engine. Instead, Alan felt like the lone white blood cell patrolling the veins of a plague victim.

Being a Tracy, he listened hard and did what he could, wherever flipping a switch, replacing a filter, or performing some basic maintenance would help out. On the other hand, he wasn't in there alone. Zippy could log in and talk to City Control, finding supplies and downloading a virtual map.

Now, at his third unmarked crossroads, Alan took a short break. He studied the 3-D projection, expanding its size to walk on inside as he unwrapped and ate a Protein Pal bar.

"There's no way out," he remarked, around a big mouthful of soy and dried cherry. "Even the way we came in is blocked off. Not cool."

Didn't make any sense, either. Why yeet a guy all the way out here just to keep him trapped in a network of maintenance corridors?

"Zip," he decided, washing his food down with flat, bottled water. "We're gonna have to break out."

Because, no way in heck was Alan R. Tracy waiting around to get rescued. Fortunately, Zippy was on the case, highlighting several weakened hatches, then shrinking and rotating the virtual map so that Alan could make a selection. Better yet, the silvery video drone was up to "K" in the Morse code alphabet. (Dah- deet- dah.)

The young astronaut's freckled face screwed up in sudden, deep thought. He'd unzipped and peeled down his jacket and shirt, leaving only a sodden white tank top concealing his narrow chest. Hot as heck, and not in a big-money Hollywood way.

"Know what, Zip?" he asked, pushing sweaty blond hair off his forehead. "If they're trying to make us go north, I feel like heading back south, again."

…After all, only a fool played a rigged game by somebody else's rules.

Zippy beeped a response, then flipped the holograph map around so that two flashing hatches faced Alan. One of them led to the surface, one further down in, to some kind of VIP launch hangar.

Al grinned, reaching right through the virtual map to fist-bump the video drone's stabilizer fin.

"Awesome, Mc Vid-bro. I'm thinking launch bay, because if there's one thing I know how to do, it's fly. Let's make like a tree and scram."

Would have done it, too, except that right then, mixed up with the thump, whirr and screech of failing machinery, Alan heard something else. Thought it was screaming, at first, and started to follow the noise. (Bruh. You have to ask why? He belonged to International Rescue, not International Pretend You Don't Hear Anything.)

So, yeah… it turned out to not be screaming at all, but somebody singing; making up lyrics that fit with the noise and vibration around them. Al didn't know whether to turn and sneak off, laugh, or join in… but he kept moving, threading his way through corridors that shifted, expanded and lurched like the inside of somebody's rumbling guts. Patched leaks and repaired sprung hoses where he could, getting closer and closer to that weird, howling voice.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Tracy Island, the airstrip, just before dawn-

A GDF medivac carrier hovered just over the tarmac, resting on a cushion of scintillant force. Scott stood nearby with Colonel Casey. In IR uniform, because military discipline was baked right into him. Gordon had joined them as well, but not Captain Taylor, who swore he'd developed an allergy to top brass, and was probably out on the mountain, somewhere. Brains was on his way up from the lab, meanwhile, nervously guiding the transfer of Sam and Cindy De Vries.

The carrier's ramp had extended, scraping the greyish-black tarmac below. The vehicle's throbbing roar and powerful floodlights blocked out the jungle and ocean; making the house lights seem feeble as candles. Even the cool, pre-dawn breeze was shunted aside by that hulking machine.

Scott shifted his weight from one booted foot to the other, inhaling a pungent mix of sea breeze and aircraft exhaust. Turning to Colonel Casey, he resumed the conversation.

"After that, we tried to lock on and tow the Half-Moon, but once we'd found and secured those two kids, their ship just…"

"Disintegrated," supplied Gordon, looking slap-dash and casual in shorts, tank-top and sandals.

Casey gave them a sour look. Tall, lanky and very precise, she gave the impression of having been issued, not born, already a senior officer. Glancing at Gordon, then Scott, she snapped,

"So Venus Command informs me. You did not impress Major Morrisey, gentlemen."

Gordon made a rude noise.

"Yeah?" growled the swimmer, leaning forward a little. "How 'bout we're not too impressed with his taste in planets? Sucks to be stuck in acid-and-CO2 hell, but don't take it out on the rescue squad! What'd he do to earn that post, anyhow? Feel up the Chancellor's d…"

"In other news," Scott cut in suddenly, stepping a little in front of his brother. "Gordon made a communications breakthrough, last night. With cheese pizza and an electric torch. Right, Gordon?"

The former fighter pilot was smiling, but not in an 'I love my bestest, handsome and funniest brother' kind of way. More like 'Change the subject, now, before I beat you down to your socks and scatter the pieces.' For real, no sense of humour, at all. Deciding to live, Gordon switched topics.

"I mean… sort of. I found out that they've never seen pizza before, and that they've got great aim. On the bright side, after they threw the pizza, they tasted the sauce on their fingers and liked it. Also, they don't think much of talking. Whenever I said something out loud, with my voice, they looked at me like I just ripped a big, juicy fart."

From his expression, Scott seemed to be developing another one of those headaches, and Colonel Casey's lips had flattened into a micro-thin line. Gordon kept talking.

"I tried flashing the torch while they were poking and tasting the pizza. Whatever way they're used to light-speech, though, it isn't as simple as basic Morse code or emojis. If I had more time, maybe I could…"

But Colonel Casey shook her head, no.

"I appreciate your interest in the children, Gordon, but this conundrum needs to be taken up by the best minds at the Institute. The children, and the scans you took of Half-Moon's interior will be studied intensively. This may be first contact, gentlemen, and we'll need to be fully prepared."

With her dark eyes, severe bun and razor-creased uniform, the colonel was an imposing woman. An old friend of their dad's, but nothing like Pete McCord or Lee Taylor. Said Scott,

"We understand, Ma'am. Gordon just wants to be sure that the De Vries kids will be treated like rescued children, not lab subjects."

Linda Casey softened a bit. Hard ass, yes. Heartless, no.

"Within the parameters allowed by operational security, I'll keep you updated," she promised.

A noise from the cliffside drew everyone's gaze, as a mechanical door grated open. Several silhouetted figures stepped out, seeming little as chessmen at that distance. Two were stocky and kid-sized, a dozen bulky and helmeted. Brains was there, too. Or, at least, that's how Gordon and Scott interpreted the very thin figure that gestured a lot.

"We'd appreciate any information you could provide us, Colonel," said Scott, still watching that approaching small crowd. "I know that we're not supposed to, but we get attached, sometimes, to the people we've rescued. Especially children." Once, with Kayla, he'd dared to dream about kids of his own… but all that was over and gone.

Casey looked away, tugging at the hem of her grey uniform tunic, unconsciously straightening her gig-line. Maybe she'd dreamt of a family, once, too.

"Understood. Don't expect volumes, but I'll do my best to see that you're kept in the loop."

"And we can visit," Gordon insisted, moving back out of Scott's shadow. "You know… in case those French guys don't want to be arsed. If nothing else, I'll be a familiar face. Someone to throw their new food at."

Casey actually smiled.

"I'll see what I can do," she responded, as the group from Brains' labs stepped into the carrier's floodlights.

Cindy and Sam stayed nervously close to each other, shuffling like people who'd otherwise bound in the air with each step. They each clutched a bundle to their chest that they'd brought from Half-Moon. Nothing much in there but dried food and toys, plus a colour-flex blanket apiece. The girl had a ring, too. A typical Earth-style wedding band. The boy had an old pocketknife, stuffed in the midst of his blanket and clearly much treasured.

They were surrounded by GDF troops and orbited by Brains, whose agitation showed in rapid, windmilling gestures and stuttering.

"You m- m- must be, ah… be very c- c- careful to maintain the d- d- diet that I have devised, as these, ah… these ch- children are terribly d- d- deficient in vitamin K and leucine."

The lead trooper said something reassuring, without actually promising anything. Such matters were over his paygrade. Reaching the three at the end of the boarding ramp, he snapped a salute and said,

"Subjects retrieved, Colonel Casey. Orders, Ma'am?"

Linda Casey saluted back.

"Take them aboard, make them comfortable, and let the pilot know that we'll be taking off in fifteen minutes, Sergeant."

"Yes, Ma'am. I'm on it."

Gordon would have liked to say something to those two worried, all-alone kids, but they wouldn't have understood him. Instead of talking or joking, he pushed past the GDF troopers to reach Cindy and Sam. Made eye contact, then pointed from himself… his heart… to them and then back to his own forehead. Not sure what he was trying to see beyond, 'I care, and I won't forget you'.

They were very still for a moment. Then Cindy pretended to throw something at him, like hurling a phantom pizza slice. Sam repeated the gesture, touching his forehead as the swimmer had. Not much, but a start. Maybe a promise.

Gordon had brought something with him, in the pocket of his cargo shorts. For each kid, a model of Thunderbird 4 and one of those promotional IR call flashers, the sort that they gave away free at conventions and airshows. Gave the two kids their presents, which didn't get thrown, but clenched tight.

Dawn was fast approaching, with all of the crazy tropical sights that two kids brought up by aliens just wouldn't get. Scott placed a big hand on Gordon's right shoulder, giving the swimmer a gentle shake.

"They've got to go," he said to his younger brother, in a voice rough with suppressed emotion.

"But not forever," said Gordon, as the GDF hustled Cindy and Sam up that ribbed metal boarding ramp.

"Not forever," Scott agreed, not knowing quite what to hope for. "We'll see them again."

…and maybe they'd learn what was out there, and what it intended for Earth.