In advance, Happy Easter! Here's wishing blessings and vaccinations for everyone. Freshly edited. =)

31

Thunderbird 1, in flight-

Ordinarily, Scott Tracy would have circled the danger zone, taking plenty of pictures and video; scanning for victims with infrared camera and ground-slicing electron tomography. He'd have contacted the GDF and local authorities while setting up a command post somewhere close by, linking Island Base to the nearest agency with power to make swift decisions.

Not this time.

By now, Scott had burnt all the fuel he possessed, leaving Thunderbird 1 on her last whiff of fumes and emergency nuclear battery. Plus… the sheer scope of this thing rocked him back on his figurative heels…

There was no more Venice.

Instead of a magical island city gracing its placid lagoon, there rumbled a gigantic column of choking grey dust. Thousands of feet below that a vast, muddy cavern rumbled and settled; more sucking chest wound than city. Robots darted above it like silver gulls at a rubbish heap, or else floundered helplessly, mired and sinking in sticky brown mud.

There was no one left to take charge.

So, Scott did what he had to. He crumpled emotion away to the farthest part of his soul, and got down to work. Found the driest, most stable patch of accessible ground and landed his silvery Bird, leaving the aircraft on auto, in case she had to perform an emergency launch. Next, seizing his jet-pack and med kit, the pilot vaulted out of his cockpit; leaving before the canopy hummed fully open.

Then he sped forward, or tried to.

"Scott Tracy… International Rescue… to Venice Authority. I'm on site, and help is on the way… Need to coordinate with local rescue efforts, over."

Rushed and breathless sounding, because he was guiding a hover-cart load of supplies and his own ragged flight through a blizzard of swirling debris and dust. A chorus of robots responded, plus one or two distant radio hobbyists. A GDF rescue team, just lifting off. Then,

"Tracy, Chancellor McGill! Get a fix on this signal! Please hurry!"

This last one was staticky. Backed up by the groan of collapse and roaring water. By shrill, frantic screams too suddenly choked.

"Copy that," he responded, using eye blinks and swiveling gaze to control his helmet's Heads Up Display. Drew a bead on that signal, tracking it down to what his useless map claimed was the Rialto Bridge (now just a crumbling stone heap).

High tide was surging on the nearby Adriatic. The Po and Piave Rivers continued to pour, as Venice slumped into that hungry dark water. He'd get there as fast as he could… but, alone, what could he do?

"Thunderbird 2, from Scott Tracy," grunted the pilot, heading for a stump of shattered and twisting white bridge. "What is your ETA?"

"Spencer, from Thunderbird 2. Pedal t' th' floor, Spence, we're lookin' at fifteen more minutes," replied Captain Taylor, sounding whisper-close and directionless, over the mic.

"Make it ten," barked Scott, who very much needed them yesterday. Switching channels, he wiped at his ash-clotted visor. Then, making contact, said,

"Virge… John… tell me something good. I need you on site and active, right the h*ll now!"

Because water was rising and time had run out, for thousands of desperate lives.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Globe Studios transport shuttle GS-21, en route-

Right, so… They'd broken into a totally automated d*mn cockpit, and proceeded to rip up and hotwire the sh*t out of it. (Its robotic guidance, at least.)

Virgil did most of the actual flying, having trail-rigged a headset and viewscreen out of John's scavenged parts. Banked and dove a lot more than he wanted to, because they weren't unopposed in their flight. Yeah. Good times.

John was pretty much occupied blocking incoming sh*t from Globe Studious. Stuff like "engine-kill" signals… sudden gravity-well pulses… and dozens of exterior camera drones turned laser-guided assassins.

In the back, glimpsed through a webwork of trailing wires and still-glowing torn metal, Kayo and Penny were trying to maintain their balance while systematically stripping their compartment for anything useful. Max was busy keeping their camera drones quiescent, blocking all incoming signals from Melissa Maxton. Then,

"Virgil… John… tell me something good. I need you on site and active, right the h*ll now!"

Pilot and astronaut glanced at each other across their makeshift controls. From mid-Pacific to Venice was no joke, even in Thunderbird 2. In a frickin' paper airplane transport shuttle?

"Give me a week, maybe," grumbled Virgil, fighting to wring what he could from two feeble small engines.

"Say again?!" snapped their brother, over the contraband speaker. (Which, newly wired-to-sound on a stretched foil membrane, made Scott's voice seem scratchy and thin.)

"S- Scott, I b- believe that I, ah… I m- may be able to help," cut in Brains, sounding even more tinny and distant. "With y- your permission, I can seize emergency c- control of, ah… of th- the orbital microwave stations, and beam their power to GS-21. There, ah… there m- may be some turbulence, however."

Not a decision that Scott could make, though. Not his life to play dice with. John looked over at Virgil, who was in a better position than him to judge their vehicle's fragile tolerance. The cargo pilot just shrugged.

"What the h*ll, huh? We make it on time, or break up in mid-air. You wanna live forever?"

John made the short, coughing grunt that served as his laugh.

"No… but I was hoping to outlive Dad's whiskey stash."

Virgil grinned at the redhead, making his warm brown eyes crinkle up at their corners.

"I dunno, Man," he teased. "Dad's got some pretty old stuff in there. What say we break in and hit it, soon as we're back on the Island?"

"Sounds like a plan. Dibs on the scotch." Then, John returned his attention to their hand-cobbled speaker. "Do it, Brains. Suggest beaming a forcefield, as well, in case this superannuated heap can't handle any more hamsters on the wheel."

"Eh- FAB," quipped the engineer, as Jeff always had. ("F***in' A, Bubba" being a much-cherished phrase of his.)

End result? All over the Atlantic rim, houses and non-essential businesses suffered an unexplained brown-out. Meanwhile, high overhead, a tiny shuttle first glowed like a gem and then took off at hypersonic speed, trailing a massive shockwave and bits of glittering hull.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Globe Studios, in the darkened and murmuring video centre-

Melissa Maxton's jaw dropped wide open, as she stared at her glowing viewscreen. Behind her, the senior effects tech whispered,

"Ms. Maxton… should… would you want us to send a retrieval squad, Ma'am?"

"Huh?" she demanded, slitted brown eyes still locked on that screen. "Retrieval…? No. H*ll, no. I couldn't make this sh*t up, if I tried! Look at that viewer response! Nah… just pull half of my camera drones off of their targets, and have them follow that shuttle. Cut whatever deals you have to, and get into the video feed, wherever our rebels are headed. This is ratings platinum, right here. Better yet… get the kid and old lady up here, too. Candid reaction shots, hostage material… whatever."

She was babbling. Thinking on the fly, and hearing the mental ka-ching of her internal cash-counter. Smiling, too. Never a safe thing for anyone.