27

Cloud City denouement, at roughly mid-plaza:

Later, with all of those kisses and clinches in just the right places, the final scene appeared polished and smooth. In actual fact, it was anything but.

Pushing distractions aside, John Tracy went at that force field clock trap; working like rescued lives hung in the balance. While Virgil handled the GDF Navy with Max... while Penny and Kayo held off the rock band... John started at opening 12, then moved around clockwise until he reached opening 7. Had to duck flung debris at that point, catching and returning most of it.

The bit that got through... part of a jet engine stater-vane... didn't reset the clock. Just lit up that force field again.

Seven plus seven equals two, went the riddle. In that brief flare of cold light, John set off once more, his video drone keeping pace. All the way round on a sharply tilting surface, with acrid smoke and grinding alarms choking that oven-hot air.

Something shrieked past, overhead. Fast-moving flitter, possibly? The astronaut didn't have time to waste wondering. Moving seven more spaces, he passed 12 again to stop at opening number two. Heard and felt a brief subliminal tingle, then plunged on through.

Just about literally plunged, because the floor gave way as soon as he entered, leaving only a narrow catwalk of steel from portal to gently rotating sapphire shard. Nothing but wind-whipped cloud and long, deadly fall underneath him. But John had a great head for heights. The everyday view from Thunderbird 5 saw to that.

Carefully, swiftly, he edged his way onto that hill-sloping span, very glad for magnetic boot soles. Anything could have been going on outside. The rest could have joined right up in a saucy kick-line to the bouncing tune of "Unity Rocks". John kept his focus on reaching the goal.

Not much different than baseball, really. Twenty-five times, a runner might fake stealing home. It only mattered on the actual, desperate burst, when John would whirl on the pitcher's mound and throw to the nearest base. Slam, bam, thank you, Ma'am, and just like that, another out.

Then somebody tried for the opening. Kraft, it looked like. Also, the city tipped another five-point-three degrees downward. So, yeah... the catwalk spun like a clock hand as all of those portals reshuffled. Cold wind and rain from below swept through the opening, drenching John and his already slippery perch.

The redhead dropped to a crouch, hanging on with gecko gloves and magnetic boots till the bridge stopped moving. He was just a few hurried paces from the game piece, at that point, but the other teams had learnt that by touching the force field walls, they could cause trouble. Maybe delay or dislodge him.

Well, the Academy taught focus and IR refined it. John kept on moving, inching along that lurching and spinning steel ribbon till he could stretch out a gloved hand and touch the blue shard. A deep chime sounded the instant he made contact. The force field dropped, and so did that whisper-thin catwalk.

John had to twist and leap like a salmon, taking hold of the game piece while landing himself square on its slender pedestal. No way back... too far to jump without cheating... but, if there was one thing John Tracy could do, it was pitch. The shard was as long as his forearm. More like a spear than a baseball, but life was full of surprises and Virgil was open.

John caught his brother's eye, bounced the shard once for feel, and then threw. Virgil, a former college fullback, caught that drilled pass like a hurled football, grunting aloud.

The free space... where they were meant to defend their prize until time was called... popped up about four yards to his right, bounded in glittering force. Then, out of seemingly nowhere, a junky old aircraft flopped onto the slanted plaza, crushing debris and scattering players as it fishtailed across City Centre.

The noise and pressure wave (WHAM, GRIND, SCREECH, THUD!) were intense enough to pop eardrums. Virgil skidded and rolled, pushing at tumbling junk with both feet. Held onto the game piece, though. One of the Deth Chix launched herself his way, screaming curses and waving a spiked bat. Max lumbered into her path, only to have his borrowed head stoven in like a dropped cantaloupe. Penny took care of Cobra Doll, sending her flying back with a powerful kick. The other one, Murder Doll, was still in his path, lunging right at him.

Only, Alan had burst from that wrecked X-50, not two feet from the beckoning free space.

"Virgil! Over here!" the boy yelped, jumping and waving both arms. Done.

The big pilot set his feet, hauled back and threw for all he was worth, praying that his skinny, gamer-boy brother could catch. And he did... sort of. Folded around that flying shard like a collapsing bed sheet, actually, but hung on to the dang thing...

Until Frog chirped,

"Sorry to say, but not today!"

...and cold-cocked the poor kid, snatching the game piece away from his limp, nerveless hands. Frog hadn't figured on Emma Kraft and Wayne Rigby, though. Squealing, the song-writer tried to dance past their sudden charge, dropping the gem-like blue shard.

Then, somehow, Grandma turned up along with a nervous young intern. Smiling gently, the old lady said,

"Thank you, young feller. I b'lieve that's ours."

Swift as a blink, she scooped it up off the ground and then stepped right into the free space. Time rang out about three seconds later, just as Emma dove past the boundary. First point: IR.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Tracy Island, late morning, at the food-cluttered dining room table-

"Disqualified?" asked Scott, scarcely believing it.

"Well... yeah," Virgil admitted. "To be fair, we had too many men on the field."

"Not our fault," said John, glancing up from his book. "They're the ones who let Alan and Grandma join in. And technically, since I was trapped on a pillar, Max got his head knocked off and Alan became unconscious, Grandma counted as a player... which we pointed out at the time. Rules, people... about which, I all am."

Until it suited him not to be, as in round two of a very tough game.