Thanks, Tikatu, for the awesome suggestions! Consider them taken. =)

33

Tracy Island, at the ring-

The man known to most of the world as Hiram Hackenbacker stared blindly at shifting data; his face flicker-illuminated, dark eyes haunted and blank. Had he done the right thing? Was such a tremendous risk… no matter the possible gain… worth taking? And what of the actual reason he'd researched and created such perilous tech?

Brains sat at his usual seat in the ring, his skinny frame hunched well forward, as though in physical pain. An untouched glass of tea sat where a house bot had placed it hours before, the fluid gone transparent on top and silty-dark green underneath. The engineer hardly noticed.

The ring's holo-globe betrayed disaster on a scale that International Rescue was unable to cope with, alone. Even those just-arrived GDF work crews were out of their depth, able to save here and there a few drowning people, but far too late for the rest.

Comms chatter filled up the air like hive noise, as Virgil Tracy took charge of the rescue effort. He'd directed Max to subvert the Globe Studios camera drones to spot and "tag" struggling victims, then sent John and Gordon down after Scott. Lee Taylor had joined the effort as well, leaving Thunderbird 2 on low hover-standby. It wasn't enough, though. Not nearly enough. Brains closed his eyes for a moment, calling to mind the man who'd hired and saved him, all those long years ago. The man he'd sworn to bring home.

"M- Mr. Tracy," Brains murmured, not loudly enough for the mic to pick up. "I h- have pledged to find and, ah… and r- rescue you. In this regard, the p- projector has, ah… has b- been my great hope of p- prevention, if not outright recovery."

Tears stung his eyes, fogging his glasses and blurring his view. The engineer wiped them away with the rumpled sleeve of his lab coat, knocking his glasses askew. Using the projector might well use it up; might cost him another whole year to create and refine enough anti-protons.

"I c- cannot ask what you would, ah… would p- prefer me to do, Mr. Tracy. I can only, ah… only g- guess, based on the man I know you to be."

Not "were". No past tense. He had to believe, as the familydid, that Jeff Tracy survived. Those danger-zone images wavered and blurred again, seeming glimpsed through deep, shifting water. Brains took a ragged, deep breath, talking as much to himself as to his absent friend and employer.

"I th- think you would tell me to s- save innocent lives, no m- matter the cost to, ah… to y- yourself."

And his sons? Scott, John, Virgil, Gordon and Alan? His daughter Tanusha and pepper-strong mother? They could not ever be told of the price for this rescue. They must not be forced to choose between mission and family. That burden… that awful guilt and remorse… Brains would keep to himself.

If only it worked. If only the sacrifice mattered.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Thunderbird 4, under deep, swirling waters-

Gordon Tracy made the best speed he could, sometimes pausing to cut through debris or work a swift rescue; plucking gasping people from shrinking pockets of dank, fetid air. With beacons attached and floats applied, each salvaged victim shot to the surface, there to be picked up and treated.

Sometimes, though, all that he found was a corpse; floating with drifting hair and billowing clothes and wide, sightless eyes. Couldn't do a thing for them besides cross himself and keep moving, keep hunting for those still alive.

Lost track of time, but reached Scott's general location as his brother was fighting to free a trapped kid. Five or six years old, looked like, and way too panicked to be still and cooperate. Scans showed a woman a few yards away. She had a beacon attached and was trailing blood like a filmy red scarf.

Right. Gordon slammed on his helmet and then slid backward out of Thunderbird 4. Dark water pressed like a cold fist. Crap visibility, so the diver cut on his helmet lamp and heads-up system. Locked right onto that beacon, tracking it through a maze of girders, timber and stone, till he reached the trapped, bleeding woman. Semi-conscious, slipping fast into shock, but alive, thank God.

Taking quick stock, Gordon reached for his med-kit. Job one, stop the bleeding and get her to help. A strong current coiled and pulsed around the young man as he worked, carrying rumours of all it had brushed past to reach him. Gritty with silt, sparking mild electrical fields wherever metal met seawater.

Cautiously, the aquanaut packed a compression bandage around the woman's pinned leg. She was wearing an IR rebreather and mask, but seemed hardly aware of his presence. Incipient shock, for certain. Freeing her leg was going to prove tricky. Bad angle, through too much tangled-up junk, in currents that blew like a gale.

The compression wrap adhered and inflated, stanching her blood as well as applying firm pressure. Next, Gordon summoned a heater drone from his sub. It arrived within minutes, buzzing through spaces a hand-span in width. Yellow, like Thunderbird 4, the streamlined drone was semi-autonomous, able to hover or clamp, as the situation required. Gordon directed it using his HUD, putting the unit as close as he dared to that half-conscious woman. Up to this point, he'd seen her as just a warm and endangered body; a patient in need of quick rescue.

Peering closer, past helmet glass and HUD-data… actually looking… Gordon recognized Chancellor McGill, former director of WASP. Grey eyes, red-brown hair, slightly bullet-scarred forehead. There couldn't be two of them. A frisson of shock ran through him as he realised who he'd been working on. He had to force himself back to professional calm because, down here, emotion was deadly. John or Scott wouldn't have blinked, but Gordon led with his heart every time, and crap like that took its toll. Still concerned about losing her to shock, he forced a smile and said,

"Afternoon, Ma'am. I'm Gordon Tracy, with International Rescue, and I'll have you out of here in just a minute. Stay with me, okay? I need you watching the water behind me, in case… uh… in case something's about to hit my back. Help me out, okay?"

Careena McGill might not have fully heard that distorted voice through the rattle and roar of debris-laden water, but she managed a very small nod.

So, yeah… back to business. His space heater warmed the surrounding water a bit, but fast-moving currents drove away much of that generated heat. Best just to get McGill out of there, the aquanaut decided. Up to where blankets, coffee and rescue-bots waited.

With his plasma torch, Gordon made a series of precise, careful cuts. The sort of thing he and Virgil practiced in sim, all the time. Getting as close as he dared to the chancellor's leg, he cut away wires, rebar and wood, all the while humming a popular tune.

Probably drove Brains nuts, having to listen to music second hand like that, but tunes helped him work, so Gordon kept at it. At one point, maybe reacting to heat from the plasma torch, Chancellor McGill reflexively jerked her leg. It slipped free, allowing Gordon to seize her in a lifeguard rescue hold, then make his way over to Thunderbird 4. Straight to the surface wasn't an option. Not in her state, with all of that tumbling debris in the water.

He got her inside through the small airlock, then loaded aboard and strapped down. Next, taking a few sips of Vital-Ade and fast, savage bites of a protein bar, Gordon Tracy shot right back out after Scott. The job wasn't done yet and no one could rest. Not while anyone else was alive needing help.

They needed serious backup. Instead, they got a swarm of video drones, guided in by Melissa Maxton, herself.