Alan - Kree

by Pascal in Quebec

IR – International Rescue; a name known and honored across Earth for altruism, freely given help and technical miracles. The truth inside was not so loving or helpful. Alan being fed-up with his relatives' abuses takes the one lucky event given him to get out of their clutches, thus falling through the Stargate and into the claws of an ancient legendary creature forgotten by all.

1. Chapter 1

The author wishes to express thanks to anyone who may read his story and encourages them to leave reviews, comments or even flame it hard. As with any who try their hand at publicly expressing an idea or story concept, all feedback is important and welcome.

Disclaimer: I do not own Thunderbirds, nor any other sci-fi or fantasy series, movies, comics, cartoons or news items used in this fiction as they belong to the creators or broadcasters or publishers who put them out for consumption by the public.

Thunderbirds

ABSTRACT

IR – International Rescue; a name known and honored across Earth for altruism, freely given help and technical miracles. The truth inside was not so loving or helpful. IR's prowess was only for peoples other than the Family's youngest son, or their paid employees who were treated like slaves. Alan being fed-up with his relatives' abuses takes the one lucky event given him to get out of their clutches, thus falling through the Stargate and into the claws of an ancient legendary creature forgotten by the Worlds. Their friendship will redo the Universes they tread.

This story is Thunderbirds Crossover/Alternate Universe that have been integrated into the Stargate universes and stories, therefore many characters will be OOC because their backgrounds have changed. Also, these events happen well after the ends of all SG series/movies and are deemed independent, therefore I haven't bothered to note the ages of any SG characters as they should not be present much.

Anti-IR; plentiful bashings of Jefferson, Grant, Ruth, Penelope, Kyrano & Onaha Bellegant. Survivors Alan, Hiram, Fermat & Tanusha. Ignorant/abused/exploited Tracy brothers.

This story takes place in a world that combines the elements of Thunderbirds 1964, Thunderbirds are go 2015 and Thunderbirds 2004 live movie. I know there is a long series of comics written but I never seen one and have no idea what canon they contain so I won't be taking those into account.

IMPORTANT: for the purpose of keeping this story logical and relevant, I will use the original names of the Bellegant family meaning Onaha (mother), Kyrano (father) Tanusha / Tin-Tin / Kayo (daughter) and Trangh (Uncle / The Hood). Hiram (Brains) was married but his wife disappeared & presumed murdered while his son Fermat is 2 years younger than Alan.

Grant Hugh Tracy, age 82 (deceased at 73)

Ruth Felicia Hardale Tracy, age77

Jefferson Grant Tracy, age 63

Lucille Evans Tracy, age 45 (deceased at 34)

Scott Carpenter Tracy, age 25

John Glenn Tracy, age 23

Virgil Grissom Tracy, age 21

Gordon Cooper Tracy, age 19

Alan Sheppard Tracy, age 14

Hiram Jebediah Hackenbacker, age 36

Audrey Evelyne Hackenbacker, age 39 (presumed murdered at 28)

Fermat Peter Hackenbacker, age 12

Trangh (The Hood) Bellegant, age 52

Kyrano Bellegant, age 55

Onaha Bellegant, age 48

Tanusha (Kayo / Tin-Tin) Bellegant, age 19

The Honorable Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward, age 29 (British MI6 spy)

Aloysius Parker, age 57

PS; I like flames, they're fun to read so don't hesitate to write them.

WARNING; the language level of this one is not too particularly trashy when we consider a story based on ex-cons, ex-military men, high risk situations and rescue specialists dealing with everybody's crap and messes on top of their own. Also, it was series canon that the entire Tracy household swore like drunken sailors on an hourly basis. They cleaned up the language a whole lot more than spic-&-span in the 2004 movie and 2015 series. Remember the internal joke that the "all clear" call phrase "FAB" actually spells out "Fuck It All, Boys!" because of how often Jefferson was absolutely livid with rage at all five sons at the same time. It was transformed as a familial joke to tell each other that if Dad was able to get angry to scold or punish, then they were all healthy and doing fine at whatever was happening as Jeff had always told them "Rescue first, heal second then order the House after everything else is done and packed away."

However, as I always warn people who read my work: this language was pretty much normal in the school yard 30 years ago when I was a teenager. So, how can you have such a thin skin and be part of the same culture on the same continent if this is really that offensive to you? Where did you spend the last few decades, if you can't take a few hard words from the mouths of kids when these words have been around since before World War I?

ALAN - KREE chapter 1

Not a good House to grow in

(Thunderbirds are go! 2015 – opening theme)

Monday 26th of June, 2034; 12:17pm (noon)

Tracy Island, dining room

North-east of the Australian coastline

Scott Tracy yawned widely as he took a seat at the dining table, eliciting smirks from his two younger brothers Virgil and Gordon. The young adult had been saddled with doing a large part of their father's IR reports and inventory renewals all weekend long due to his absence for a shindig in Washington DC that had cropped up at the last minute.

Something US President Harland had insisted he be present for, so he couldn't refuse, not with how dependent Tracy Heavy Industries (THI) had become towards federal procurement contracts to stay alive. If they didn't have the voracious beast called IR to feed, they could be more selective about the jobs they accepted, but things were as they were, and so needs must.

Ignoring the flannel-clad lout that was shoving fish, salad and rice into his mouth with far better manners than should be possible given the size of the bites he was hauling from plate to face, Scott instead asked the red-headed brat. "Where's Alan at? Doesn't he want to eat?"

Gordon, barely dressed in short and tight psychedelically colored lycra surf shorts and nothing else, shook his head as he bit through a warm crusty baguette covered in garlic butter, green onions, molten cheese and bacon bits. He was eating something warmer to offset the less warm climate in this season, which was the inverse of the Northern hemisphere where summer was full-on.

After swallowing his food, the tanned 19 years old shrugged carelessly as he verbally brushed-off the question into somebody else's hands. "Ask Virgil when he's done imitating a black hole. Ever since the kid's been back from school with Fermat last week, he's been acting weirder than I ever saw. He didn't talk to me since arriving, and didn't react at all to my usual 'welcome-back-prank' that I do every time he returns from going away for a long time."

Scott closed his blue eyes and rubbed at the bridge of his nose tiredly, knowing full well that the prank mentioned by Gordon was much more in-line with bullying, or flat-out physical assault, than any sort of playful brotherly teasing. In fact, Alan could be bleeding to death in the Thunderbird silos and the adolescent wouldn't have much of a care about it, or the consequences. Turning his weary eyes towards the engineer – paramedic of the team, he just raised his eyebrows in query, getting answered as expected.

Virgil, dressed in dark blue jeans and a checkered red & black flannel shirt over a plain white T-shirt as was his wont, also gave a careless shrug as he explained in drab tones; "As far as I know, the Sprout's been cooped up in the design lab with Hiram, Fermat and their pet robot Max. Tin-Tin was around for a while, but then she had to go with her family to Thailand for an emergency reunion. You do remember that her maternal grand-mother just got hospitalized for a lung tumor, right? So, Alan must have spent the last four days exchanging cortex massages with the Hackenbacker's about – Stuff – that I really don't think I want to know about. Go ask him yourself. You're his favorite brother, he'll answer you, unlike the rest of us."

Grabbing a white porcelain plate and serving himself some garlic bread, salad and Pilaf rice as a quick noon lunch, the expert pilot decided to limit the meat intake for now. He still wasn't rested from the short, restless sleep cycle he'd managed to get, and his ill-woken stomach wasn't interested in a heavy meal until supper nearer to seven o'clock. Still, a piece of that nicely seared cod fillet would round-out his plate and fill the little hole in his appetite that didn't want to wind-up vegetarian like some schoolgirl on a diet because the bitches in class all dissed her appearance, food choices and everything else.

After chewing a few bites, the eldest brother made a lackluster attempt at getting his brothers to give Alan some breathing room, instead of constantly hazing, humiliating, or outright abusing him, just because he was the youngest.

Just because Jefferson didn't want him alive, not if it cost his poor wife Lucille her life.

Not that the first soldier amongst the brothers would ever dare to admit their father's failings aloud, nor the fact that the other three middle siblings took their 'permission' to hurt Allie from Jeff's overt tolerance of events, when he wasn't the one piling-on the hurt himself. Sighing loudly, the young man declared "You both could have made an effort to welcome him back home with something else than lack of care or worse, dumb injurious pranks that leave scars until he can get to the clinic on Australia's mainland, at the end of the year when we prepare Christmas holidays. Are you really trying to get rid of him? Do you really want to push him off the island and out of your lives that much? You should both think real hard about those answers, cuz my patience with all of your idiocies is worn out."

Raising his hands in immediate surrender, Virgil exclaimed "Hey! Why are you aiming that blame at me for? I never hit the kid and I barely yell at him, unlike you who's taken a belt to his ass a few times in the last five years! And I distinctly remember at last Easter break when you slapped him in the face for something but never gave any explanations about it. So why don't you look in the mirror at your own sins, and then come ring my bell. We'll talk when your own conscience is clear."

As he was inspected by his two older siblings together, Gordon shrugged both shoulders in total lack of care or concern for his baby sibling's welfare. "He deserves everything I give him. He's a damned pest that I have to lug around all the time, but he never gives any thanks for it. I have to sacrifice a whole lot of my rare free time to serve as his bloody chauffeur or worse, be his pilot the moment he has a gig off-island that Kyrano or Onaha can't take him to. Like they're paid to do, by the way! Why the bloody Hell do we have domestics if we have to do the jobs ourselves, anyways?"

Dropping his steel fork on his plate noisily, Scott frowned nastily at his second youngest brother as he let loose a word-bombing run that made the younger boy cringe then pull back in fear. "Damn it to fucking Hells and back, Gords! He's your brother, not a pet or livestock! You're supposed to take care of him, just like I did with all four of you before! I had to drive you guys around too, the moment I was sixteen and had my license in hand. That's the deal; you get the vehicles and paid gas on condition of driving the younger ones around or doing errands as requested. How many times has dad gone to town on your hide cuz you're too stubborn to accept that part of the PRIVILEGE of owning so many vehicles is both their maintenance and SHARING them with others! And where the bloody blue blazes did you get that snotty, snobbish, entitled attitude about servants and your supposed 'position' in life? Because I sure don't remember mom, dad or me teaching you that! If you don't want me to show you that 19 years old is still plenty young enough for a good spanking with a wooden spoon to have a positive effect on your teenaged bitching, you'd best wise-up or else!"

Now in a really angry mood, Gordon plunked his utensils on his plate hard enough that they clanged as he shoved his chair backwards to stand defiantly. "Who died and made you boss? Just cuz I give the smarmy little shithead something to remind him to follow orders and not be a bother I'm suddenly the bad guy of the household? Well fuck that! You can tell dad about it and see what he says! If anybody in this house knows exactly how much Alan needs a good whack to set him straight, it's him! And I'll bloody well say what I want about the hirelings, too! Their pay comes out of mom & dad's legacy, OUR wealth and prosperity, and it's OUR HOUSE they work in, not some anonymous office tower! If they can't do things right or know their places in OUR HOUSE, then they should go work elsewhere! Is that clear, bastard?"

Making a face of unfettered rage, the young aquanaut concluded with clenched fists and gritted teeth as he shouted "And take your threats to my ass and fuck yourself with e'm, fucktard! I'm nineteen years old! I'm a full-on adult, not a stupid child! Try to smack me around and I'll beat you right back to the USA mainland! You can stay there until you learn to treat your family right!"

A nasty snort of disdain resounded throughout the vast open-plan kitchen, dining room, living room and mezzanine balcony that served as heart & hub of the Tracy Villa. Walking in slowly from the basement via the main staircase well, Alan sneered contemptuously at Gordon as he gave a slow golf-clap to indicate clearly how despicable he thought the other teen was.

{ IR } - { Alan's revolt } - { SG }

Looking the raging aquanaut up and down with open despise, Alan declared with a pronounced sneer of anger in his voice "Why do you think you're so good anyways, Gordy? Hein? Your much vaunted age that millions of others also have, so it means nothing? The oodles of cash everybody else has worked for, while you just spend and waste it all on booze, drugs, pseudo-girlfriends-for-a-night, and useless cheap thrills at the racetracks in the US? You get your back broken and the brightest thing you come up with is to race in amateur mud-road derbies in the backwoods of Kansas? And all that makes you better than the Bellegant's because? Hein? Because of what, exactly? Cuz I missed your explanation of that."

Standing still but vibrating with raw anger at being challenged by the family's hated runt, Gordon aimed his bronze-colored eyes at the boy, only to hate him worse as he was forced to look upwards to meet his gaze, despite Alan being located a good dozen feet away in the stairwell's doorway. He might be only fourteen years old, but Alan already topped 5' 10" tall whilst Gordon had stopped at 5' 4", most probably due to his back injury and the bevvy of meds he had taken for two years to repair everything. This meant that no matter how many times he tried to physically intimidate the younger sibling, Alan was no longer afraid of him since the size and weight difference was clearly favoring the junior more with each passing month.

Alan's differences were all the clearer in how he dressed, compared to Gordon; beige T-shirt with a long-sleeved blue flannel shirt that had asymmetrical gray lines as decorations, normal-fit black jeans with long legs and plain white sneakers. He looked like an ordinary teenager from a regular family, unlike Gordon who had begun dressing 'slutty' at age fifteen and gotten worse since. In fact, the only reason his current clothing could not be called whorish was because it was bought off the rack at Walmart and he hadn't yet made any holes, rips, tears or other 'embellishments' in the rather ordinary surf shorts. Then again, he'd come home with them last Saturday evening and it was his first time wearing them, so he' probably -redesign- them sometime before Wednesday evening.

The other visible difference between the two brothers was Gordon's deep bronze tan, accentuated by several tattoos and piercings that had begun accumulating since the boy turned 18. In contrast, Alan was a milky pale white just like their brother John, with unblemished skin and no body art or modifications, thus showing he was mostly at ease in his own identity and presentation, unlike Gordy who kept showing how uneasy and despondent he was with all the mods he was inflicting on his already damaged body.

And then there was the attitude. Never was it more visible how different the two were than when they stood side-by-side. Gordon had become an angry, nasty, bitchy little thing that never stopped throwing churlish comments and flat-out insults at everything in sight, while Alan acted far more calmly, always polite unless directly attacked right to his face. Unfortunately, the three people most likely to challenge or denigrate the teen were all living on Tracy Island full-time; Jeff, Gordon, and grandma Ruth.

The current face-off could not end otherwise than badly, and it was a long time coming.

Letting his contempt and rage show on his face and body language, Gordon squared his shoulders as he took a menacing step towards the younger boy, only to freeze on the spot when Allie raised his right hand. Bronze eyes met blue eyes, and the nineteen-year-old backed down, turning away in shame at his fear that he couldn't win against the family's baby.

Virgil surged angrily from his chair, the object almost tipping over from the abrupt movement. Voice low and loaded with boiling anger, the twenty-one-year-old demanded "Just what the fucks are you doing with a gun in your hands, Alan Tracy? You're fourteen, dammit! You have no business handling weapons at that age! Give it to me NOW and go wait for Scott in your room! He'll deal with your stupidity later!"

Alan's answer was to simply raise the small semi-automatic pistol directly at Virgil's head, cock the hammer, activate the red dot targeting laser, then calmly squeeze the trigger once.

BANG!

The small cal.22 pistol jerked in the boy's hand, the bullet passing an inch besides Virgil's left ear, close enough for the young man to hear it pass and feel the wind displacement. Suddenly whiter than a gallon of white primer paint, the engineer-slash-paramedic dropped leadenly to his chair, wracked by full-boy spasms of fear as he tried to understand what had just happened in his own home.

Scott was paler than Casper the Friendly Ghost from both rage, fear and a full-on panic attack, the latter making him unable to move from his seated position, for fear of falling to the floor insensate. The young adult barely managed to grunt a weak plea for Allie to stop then clutched a trembling hand over the left side of his chest, prey to a sudden lancing pain.

CRASH!

Gordon had tumbled down into the sunken living room in a panic as he tried to back away from Alan at flanking speed, thus forgetting all about the fact the living room portion of the floor was much lower, being accessed by three stairs and the wide glass doors leading to the main concrete patio with the swimming pool. The teen hit his legs on the safety banister separating the dining room from the living room, but was moving backwards so fast that he unbalanced himself over the railing and fell down into the large four-seat couch underneath, thus saving himself further spinal injuries. Stunned by events and afraid for his life given the recent abuses and violence he had inflicted upon Alan, the nineteen-year-old curled into a tight fetal ball on the couch and tried to make himself forgotten by his victim.

Gazing balefully at the assembled fools that served as his siblings, Alan asked in a cold, detached tone of voice "Will all of you finally shut up, or are you gonna keep threatening me? Cuz I gotta a good argument here for why you should all become civilized towards me, from now on."

Looking pensively at the cowering siblings, Alan shrugged it off as a bad job done and turned away, walking into the corridor that led to the private suites they inhabited. He was already decided to pack-up his belongings and move out of any & all Tracy owned properties before nightfall, and never come back. In fact, as he weighed the all-plastics pistol in his hand, the teenager thought that unless Jefferson used violence and the US police forces to constrict him back here, he would never come back of his own free will. He would kill himself and cause as big of a public mess as he could before allowing himself to be imprisoned under Tracy dominion again.

They hated him for the last eleven years of his life.

They blamed him for the death of their shared mother, during the avalanche.

They thought he was mentally retarded because he had been in a coma for nearly three months, after being recovered from the destroyed chalet where his mom had taken shelter with him, when the snow had fallen from the mountainside.

Jefferson beat him with a leather belt regularly for idiocies and meaningless peccadilloes. He hit him all over his torso, arms and legs, without rhyme or reason or any self-control. It was never enough to cause any injuries worse than welts, but always enough to take three days for the bruising and pain to dissipate, then the bastard would do it all over again, to the rate of two or three beatings per week, whenever Alan was home from boarding school.

Grandma Ruth often slapped him in the face, punched him in the chest, or grabbed his forearm with claw-like hands that sported viciously sharp nails that dug into his skin, leaving multiple little bloody crescents that took a week to heal each time. The rabid bitch was always spewing words of hate and demeaning at the boy, wishing out loud that he had died instead of Lucille, so her son could still be whole and stable as he used to be.

Scott, the oldest sibling, used to be a USAF pilot from age 18 to 22, when he got badly injured and took his medical leave from the service. He got shot down by what was reported as a terrorist cell hunkered down in a ruined village in Libya's burned-out husk of a failed country. The enemy soldiers followed the ejected pilot to his landing point where they managed to beat Scott in a shoot-out and following desperate knife fight. The badly injured pilot was held captive and tortured for nearly three weeks before a NATO patrol manned by Polish soldiers accidentally found their camp in a random sweep of the area. Ever since, Scott had become the dedicated Field Leader and Point-Man for IR, as well as the poor shlob that Jeff dumped all unwanted family or social obligations on. And that meant that his interactions with Alan had deteriorated steadily over the last five years, but gotten violent and abusive in the last two. Whatever mess Alan was blamed for, Jeff also blamed Scott for not having stopped it from happening, or accused him of indulging the younger boy to the point of making him into an entitled, spoiled wastrel that wasn't pulling his weight in the family. So, Scott had slowly begun to ask more, give less, punish often, and offer almost no support unless he saw Alan with injuries that were grave enough to bleed. Like his father, Scott had given-in to the mindset that everything bad was Alan's fault and he should suffer for it.

John was born emotionally cold and distant from everybody, no matter how many times he let loose with a display of the famous 'Tracy Temper' when he got into a right & proper strop. Mostly it was Gordon who bore the brunt of the milky-skinned astronaut, until Gordy started blaming his dumb pranks and delinquencies on Alan. The only defense Alan had was that John was far more intelligent than people realized and he could see clearly through Gordy's poor attempts at manipulation. However, that did not mean that John would actually help or defend Alan when he was attacked by the rest of the family. No; he would just not punish him unfairly himself, and move out of the room when another adult felt that some correction was needed. In the last five years, John had never once spoken aloud to say that his father, grandma or older brother were abusing Alan, and he willfully ignored most of the pranks Gordon did, especially those that were clearly sexual assault or near-molestation.

Virgil was a dumb mound of musculature. Sure, he was an affable, kind and serviable guy who would give his arm to help a person in need, as long as it wasn't Alan. While Virgil had never once hit his little brothers, he also never stepped in to stop the adults, nor did he shield Alan from Gordy's sick and twisted lack of propriety. Virg had several times walked into a situation where Alan was being physically attacked, groped and outright molested by Gordon who claimed "It'll man you up, boy!" as excuse for almost raping his junior sibling. At each occasion, Virgil had turned around, walking away without comment, nor reporting to the adults in the house.

Gordon was the worse, and clearly the most dangerous threat even ahead of Jefferson. The teenager had begun to lose control of his comportment and hormones when he turned age 15, and his favorite way of expressing his lower, crasser impulses was tormenting Alan. Not content with wearing the sluttiest kinds of clothes he could find, the teen had repeatedly made sexual comments and gestures towards Alan under the pretense of "helping him grow-up at last". In one traumatic occasion, just after Gordon's 18th birthday, the Aquanaut had woken-up Alan by wearing a red mini-thong and nothing else so he could go rub his crotch all over the child's face in lieu of morning alarm bell. When the resulting fistfight had attracted everybody into Allie's room, Gords had shrugged it off as "simply trying to show the kid what a true man looks like, so he would have a real model to emulate." And because he was now eighteen years old, Gordon had faced no punishment or admonition of any sorts since he was a full adult, just as he said. Only kids like Alan got punished, not big mighty adults like the senior Tracy's.

Let's just say that the last year had been Hell, those few times Alan had been forced to return to the Island because of mandatory school breaks. And Jeff, in his own inimitable way, had blamed Alan for Gordon's emerging depravity, saying aloud that the pilot of T4 wouldn't be a faggoted he-whore if the stupid youngest shytehead of the household could stop strutting around like a willing slut eager for a client to come get serviced.

The comment was so glaringly not based on any reality that even Scott, John and Virgil had noticed the disjunction and started asking their father some poignant questions about it, to no avail.

Well, too little too late.

With these mongrels, the only language they understood was an injury or humiliation in public. Alan had decided to give them generous helpings of both, until they left him alone.

Reaching his bedroom, the young astronaut-in-training locked the door then leaned a chair against it to make certain the lockpick wielding twits couldn't bypass the flimsy safety while he prepared his hasty departure. It had been more than nine weeks since the last beating Jeff had inflicted, and the old man was sure to be chomping at the bit to get back to the Island to correct both the state of affairs and his hated boy in one gesture.

{ IR } - { Jeff returns with bad news into a worse mess } - { SG }

(Thunderbirds are go! – opening theme)

Monday 26th of June, 2034; 18:11pm

It was almost dinner hour when the THI flagship plane came into view of Tracy Island, carrying an irate Jefferson Tracy who was primed to blow-up at the first provocation.

Having nobody on comms to help guide the plane to the runway and through the taxi phase of landing did that.

Having not a single soul on the tarmac to welcome him and explain the radio silence that had included T5 in orbit just increased his ire a long notch.

Having nobody visible in the luxurious villa's main hub to speak with when he hauled his luggage inside was another notch on the anger-meter, to which was quickly added the lack of hot meal or even just a few cold sandwiches and a beer, making him truly livid.

Jeff dropped his travel bags in the plush master suite and felt his wrath reach another plateau when he saw that all the laundry and linens had gone unwashed since he had left for the USA mainland, more than six days ago. What the bloody hells was going on in this house? Or more likely, NOT going on, since none of the most basal chores and tasks were attended for a week.

Marching back to the kitchen, the old man yanked open the fridge door just to stand there, mouth pursed into a tight line and his eyes round like dollar coins as his anger became a towering inferno of hot boiling rage. The fridge was empty of anything useful. There were condiments aplenty, but you can't survive on slurping ketchup or mayonnaise! Pulling open the drawers and boxes, Jeff was able to confirm that there was nothing left of the meats, fruits, vegetables, nor even the Swanson frozen dinners that served as emergency after-mission meals.

Doing a quick trip to the dry pantry, the old man was again pushed to boiling anger as he could see that almost all the canned or potted foods were emptied, leaving only condiments, spices and a few little sundries, but nothing that constituted a solid foodstuff.

Slamming the pantry door shut hard enough for the sound to echo across the wide-open floor, the raging father went to the wall-mounted cook's desk, near the built-in double-ovens, so he could use the wired phone to call across the Island to find somebody, somewhere.

None of the posts answered.

Not a single one.

Now frowning in anxiety more than fear, the silver-haired male used his master key to unlock the backboard of the cook's desk to reveal the hidden security console. He quickly activated the internal sensors and found his answers all in one go; Ruth and the four oldest boys were all in the safety redoubt built into the mountain's thick rock, between the T3 silo and T4 launch dock. Hiram and Fermat were in their private villa, some two hundred yards away from the Tracy villa, and all systems indicated a fully shut-in stance used only in case of invaders or bad storms. Finally, no trace of the Bellegant's could be seen anywhere on the Island, and their villa, some two hundred yards in the direction opposite the Hackenbacker's, was reading a normal closure, as if they had left a while back but expected no troubles in their absence.

X - X - X - X

Jefferson swore crassly under his breath as he stood next to the massive armored doorway that blocked access to the family's anti-invasion bunker. He had been trying to open the damned thing for an hour, but none of his keys or command codes had worked. In desperation, he had tried to call Brains, only to find out that most of the comms linking the Hackenbacker villa to the rest of the island had been taken over by a computer virus that made it look like the Island was doing well, while blocking any attempts to speak with the house's inhabitants.

So, here was Jeff, no computer hacker of any worthwhile creds, trekking in the twilight, his path lit only by a few battery-powered lamp posts the family had emplaced to make certain they could reach all the buildings in times of crisis. The 20' tall steel poles held aloft powerful lamps and multiple cameras, sensors and comms relay boosters to create a private HAM radio & cell phone network that extended up to 100 miles away from the island's beaches, almost reaching Australia's northern shorelines.

Finally arriving at the main door of his old friend's house, the NASA explorer pounded on the protective steel panel harshly, since the bloody electric doorbell didn't want to work. It took a good ten minutes for a person to release the storm shelter mode and open the regular door to answer him.

Silently thanking God inside his head, Jeff exclaimed "Hiram! What the bloody Hells happened to my family? And my house? Everybody's locked in the bunker, the Bellegant's aren't anywhere, and your comms have been routed through a proxy hijack! What is going on here?"

Dressed in his usual brown slacks and flannel shirt with sturdy black hiking boots, Hiram frowned at his employer and took the time to push his thick round glasses upwards before answering. "There was an altercation between the boys. Then Ruth thought to get involved, and it proved to be a step to much for Alan. He took control of the mess and forced the others into the bunker to contain them while he did what had to be done, for his own safety and welfare. For the details, you should ask John or Virgil, they would have the most honest and neutral view of events. Or, you could just review the tapes from the security cameras that were installed last year, after Gordon's splendidly idiotic 'I am an adult now' drunken, stoned-out, orgiastic debauchery with six teenaged nymphettes - of all genders – on the beach just besides the heavyweight runway. You know, T2's hidden runway? That was almost revealed because there was an emergency while the kids were screwing around in the water at the time?"

Oh, joy of joys! Hiram was in a tizzy tonight, and Jeff was the lightning rod for it, the retired astronaut thought as he digested his friend's dry, sarcastic explanation.

Pursing his lips in a manner reminiscent of a chicken's arsehole, Jefferson replied tersely "Yes, Hiram. Thank you for reminding me yet again about that fantastic failure of operational security and breach to our private lives. I'm sure that I needed that firmly in the front of my mind tonight. It will be helpful as I wade through this scandalous perfidy, and on an empty stomach, to boot."

Sarcasm was not unknown to Jeff, as he could show when motivated! Let Brains eat that, for a change!

Sighing in long-suffering patience, Hiram detailed "The Bellegant's are in Thailand, because they got an urgent call that Onaha's mother had been diagnosed with a lung tumor. She was hospitalized in the late evening Friday but the call for help came in Saturday morning. Scott was supposed to organize the siblings to take over the chores for a few days, but as he also had your own workload to process, it may have been forgotten. Or else, some of the boys may have decided to ignore the orders in favor of more pressing tasks, like the Thunderbirds being repaired for their next sortie."

Shaking his head sideways like a dog shaking off water, Jeff tried to wrap his head around the clusterfuck he was facing. Coming up empty, he asked despondently "You said something about Alan locking up the family in the bunker? How did he do that, and why in Tarnation would it be necessary?"

Hiram glared at his oldest no-longer friend as he replied "It was necessary to stop Gordon and Ruth from beating on him again, with possibly Scott, John and Virgil as well. Considering he had them at gunpoint, putting them in the bunker for the duration was certainly the most humane of the options he had in hand. Also, he was kind enough to put most of the villa's remaining food reserves with them, but then again, since Ruth would insist on cooking… It may have been part of the punishment too."

Dropping his head in sheer shame, Jeff begged weakly "Can you override the lockdown? I tried every key and code I have but not a single one works anymore."

Humming lightly, Hiram explained "Ah, yes! That was Alan's doing. He was ever so proud of showing me that he had paid attention to the lessons I taught his and Fermat over the years. His skills with mechanics and electronics are quite good, but his cybernetics abilities are just superb. Quite a shame, that he will never work for THI or IR, not with the relationship you have allowed to become what it is."

Head drooping even lower, Jeff mumbled tartly "I know Hiram, I know. I made a mess and I'll clean it up like a responsible adult."

Glaring at the older male, professor Hackenbacker was far from impressed, and did not believe a word of the empty promises he was hearing tonight. They had been told in his presence before, and yet here they all were, in a scandalous mess that poor Lucille would never have permitted in her lifetime.

Speaking in his nastiest intonation, Hiram declared authoritatively "I will have Fermat and Max accompany us, just to be certain your kin remain civilized in my presence. By the way, how did our shared 'little problem' in Washington DC resolve itself? Surely you did not think that I would soon forget what Gordon tried to do with MY son's image and reputation to hurt Alan, did you?"

Jefferson tried to discretely shy away from the choleric scientist without being too obvious about it. Some ten years ago, he could still have taken Hiram in a fistfight and won, but nowadays it would be a guaranteed loss with some pretty nasty injuries to tend for a few weeks. Hiram had grown-up in an orphanage of the poor and neglectful sort, so the only way he ever learned to fight was the dirty way, not something an elderly Jefferson with arthritis and two bum knees wanted to attempt anymore.

X - X - X - X

The walk back down to the Thunderbirds' main hanger floor was an eerie, quiet affair for the three humans and one robot, as Jefferson was being glared at by Fermat worse than by Hiram, and the 12-year-old boy was actually scarier than his father at present. Jeff always thought that 'killing intent' was just a plot device in fantastic stories, but he was now believing that it was real since the bespectacled kid's judgmental brown eyes were drilling holes in his back in a way he could feel. Wishing to his dead father's ghost that Fermat kept his cool for the rest of the night, Jeff was also realist enough to know that Hiram would not stop his son from exacting vengeance out of Jeff's oily hide until the entire sordid mess with Gordon had been settled with a very sorry aquanaut.

Sigh!

"How did everything go down the crapper like this?" the older male wondered forlornly as he waited while Hiram typed a series of complex passcodes into the bunker's access console.

Finally, Hiram pushed a button and static noise was heard from the speakers, along with the relieved voices of Jeff's kindred inside the redoubt. After five minutes of noisome greetings, the bedraggled father told them all to be quiet so that Brains could solve their mess at last.

The lead scientist of both THI and IR explained "Hem! I have identified what Alan did to the doorway to keep it locked. It is as ingenious in execution as it is simple in concept. He made the central server of the base believe that we are undergoing a post-HAZMAT washdown and engineering certifications at the same time. Therefore, to unlock the bunker, we must take out each Thunderbird in sequence for a fifteen minute check-flight, then run an island-wide anti-spillage drill for an hour, and the system will do the rest automatically."

Scott shoved his siblings aside so he could loom over his seated grandma to glare properly at the monitor built into the wall next to the armored doorway. "Dammit all, Brains! Can't this be bypassed?"

Shrugging helplessly, Hiram replied blithely "I designed, built and maintained the system for the last ten years, Scott, since the IR project was started. Almost single-handedly, in fact, unless you want to grant human rights to the builder-bots I had created to help build everything discretely."

Behind Scott, John, Virgil and Gordon were seen to cringe in anticipation of misery to come as their eldest sibling suddenly looked paler than their resident astronaut. Raising both hands placatingly in surrender, the ex-soldier backpedaled actively to save his hide. "OK Brains, we'll take your word for it and sit here patiently until you and dad set things straight. How long will it be, overall?"

Hiram hummed undecidedly then was blindsided by Fermat when he took far too much time to answer what was a rather simple math/chronometry problem. "What father is too polite to speculate aloud is that he, and I as well to be clear, are not convinced that letting you out will be conductive to settling certain matters peacefully. This is especially true if he decides to cancel his employment and we need to leave the Island for -safer- situations. Plus, given the level of violence all of you have proven comfortable with in the past five years, it is rather obvious that you will all lose control of your few wits and go berserk, hence the probable benefits of keeping you securely contained."

It was John that asked in a dangerously low tone of voice "What problem? And how much violence did we show you or exhibit around you, so you'd think all of us were off the deep end?"

Fermat glared at the milky-skinned spacer, answering tartly "It began with Gordon, but you all have a hand in the resulting mess. I'm certain Mister Tracy can confirm this, given he just spent three days in Washington DC, arguing against the US Justice department's desire to emit a federal warrant against Gordon for criminal breach of children's guaranteed privacy, sexual abuse & exploitation of several minors, producing and distributing child porn, distribution across state & national borders, and hacking a secondary school's security system to stalk, illegally record, and manipulate these recordings into deep fakes to damage the reputation and social standing of specifically targeted children."

The silence that followed Fermat's pronouncement was so profound it seemed they were all praying silently besides the grave of a newly buried corpse. It didn't last…

Scott turned towards his second-youngest brother, ordering him implacably "Go sit in the farthest corner of the bunker and stay silent until dad and Hiram explain everything to us, to MY satisfaction and the confirmation of Fermat's acceptance of things. If I hear a peep out of you, you'll get to see first hand that you aren't the great 'unspankable adult' that you think you are! NOW!" he roared at the end.

Eyes wet with unshed tears at the unjustness of it all, Gordon went to sit in the farthest reach of the redoubt, slowly dragging his feet and mumbling with as much ill-will his crassest vocabulary could let him display. He knew now what it was all about, and even though he doubted he'd get any real sanction for it, the rage in Hiram and Fermat's faces meant there would be at least some sort of bench time for a few weeks without any rescues or recreational activities. Most likely he would get stuck with doing Fermie's chores for a few weeks or months, then it would all get back to normal, except for Alan. As soon as the fucking little turdcake was back, Gords would make sure the loser knew his place in life, and he'd never complain to the cops ever again.

X - X - X - X

Scott roughly ran both hands through his short black hair, completely undoing the careful styling he normally favored, as he exhaled a worried breath. In despair of getting an answer he didn't want to know, the 25 year-old demanded "Dad, what did Gords do this time? And how in Hells is Fermat mixed into this damned mess?"

Feeling every day of his hard lived sixty-three years, America's first Explorer of Mars pulled a small wheeled metal stool to sit on for some much-needed rest as he thought about what he should reveal to his family, all of whom were visible on screen. Well, no two ways about it, not with Brains hanging on his shoulder, and certainly not with a rabid Fermat just waiting for an excuse to be nasty on his poor, elderly skin right here and now. Was that one of IR's hand-held cutting lasers? Sheesh! What a bloody temper, that runty kid had inside of him! Just like his dad in fact, who was eyeing that sonic drill far too lovingly for it to be natural…

Clearing his throat loudly in a transparent ploy to buy more time, Jeff changed position on the stool twice as he adjusted his khaki button-down shirt and crossed his legs before affecting an air of a man at ease with the predicament he found himself in. None of it was true, of course, but needs must…

"All right Scott, mom, and you others. This is what I have been able to divine of the bloody mess that your brother Gordon has drowned us in. In a flabbergastingly misguided effort to utterly ruin Alan's reputation as a student, and even as a person in fact, Gordon used the IR security systems, routed through THI Tower's mainframe in Kansas City (Kansas), to hack into McVeigh Academy's servers and… Well, he cyber-stalked Alan and Fermat, spying on their emails, phone calls, and all their actions inside the school campus. He paid particular attention to the phys-ed classes, going so far as to record what happened in the changing rooms of the swimming pool, gym and exterior sports field."

Jeff took a long breath to steady himself, trying to stay calm as he detailed the full idiocy of his second youngest boy. What in Tarnation had the immature, red-headed cretin been thinking at the time?

"Well, Gordon's goal had been to find what he thought of as 'incriminating' activities that he could then anonymously denounce to the school's directors, and of course to us, here on the Island, to get Alan in the deepest trouble he could manage on both ends of the line. However, he could find nothing of any use for his purposes. Alan and Fermat happened to both be particularly ordinary teenagers. In fact, Alan turned out to be actually quite the bookworm, spending nearly three hours or more per day in the students' library to finish his homework, term papers, and even extra credit projects in each & every class he has this semester. Also, Alan is actually so good at his classes that he his tutoring three different groups of three to five students in maths, computer programming and geography, most specifically the astronomy and space exploration part of the curriculum. Do note that your youngest sibling is in the Advanced Placement program for all his classes, on top of all this."

Scott wondered aloud with growing worry "If Alan has such a nice clean life at school, why the Hells do we have so much difficulty with handling him here? Wasn't his disciplinary file a nightmare at every year he attended in primary, and now at McVeigh? Didn't you tell us last month that you thought you'd be obliged to move him to a strict-regimen institute for next September? Why did you say that?"

Fermat snarked viciously "Yes, Mister Tracy! WHY did you say that, indeed? Cuz it sure seems like you were lying your face off, AGAIN! Alan is clean and everybody but YOU knows it, BASTARD!"

Hiram spoke softly across his son's tirade, before he could gather a good head of steam to run all over the bemoaning older man. "Son, let the man explain his version. You will have plenty of time to denounce any disparities or outright lies, as I will not let the captives out until all is told properly."

Wincing in renewed anguish, Jeff rubbed his chest over his heart as he continued his baleful tale. "Well, Alan's classes, grades and overall school life can be discussed at another time, if any of you think it's warranted. Anyways, since Gordon couldn't find what he was after, he decided to trawl the Web for gay porn, especially kiddie porn, and mixed it with cut-&-splice recordings of both Alan and Fermat, as if they were running a porn-cam service out of the boarding school's dormitories. Both boys were shown as standing by a bed while issuing orders to two or three 'actors' who were following the requests that were supposedly coming via a fantom, paying web portal catering to pedophiles and other more scabrous perverts. The 'actors' in these scenes were both young children and very old adults, and a few scenarios were made to look like Allie and Fermat were actually queer lovers soliciting other kids and converting them to the gay lifestyle, against their parents' wishes and good morals."

All three older Tracy siblings almost lost their last meal at the same time as they paled and dropped to the seat nearest their position, including the hard concrete floor for Virgil, who was suddenly unable to think straight anymore. Then, as one, the three hypocrites turned towards Gordon to invective him for ten solid minutes before Fermat shouted at them to shut-up or get doused by the washdown system while locked inside the bunker. As that would be the worst thing possible as the damned medical soap in the sprinklers took a full week to stop smelling nauseatingly, all three men quieted and sat back down, though not by any good will of their own.

Hiram's caustic commentary was heard to swipe across the dead silence "Perhaps you three liars who were part & parcel of the ongoing neglect, abuse and violation of Alan for the last five years could shut up so that the remainder of the situation can be unpacked? As you are no doubt aware, no amount of screaming at Gordon now will pass the blame of your own perfidies against your brother unto others. And you most certainly will not be allowed by Fermat and myself to pass blame unto Alan for all this fetor you call 'Tracy family spirits'. Not any longer. Is that clear, willful accomplices?"

Shamed to silence, the three young adults sat back quietly, wilting under the combined glares of Hiram and his boy. Even their father didn't seem to know where to look, for fear of causing a catastrophe that they would not be able to contain, let alone stop from blowing-up the whole Island forever.

Harrumphing again, Jeff joined his hands on his lap to keep from clenching his fists so tight he'd get cramps tomorrow morning, then took up the depraved tale. "Well, not content with sending the foul deep-fake videos to Alan, Fermat and several of their friends attending McVeigh Academy with them, our dear Gordon had the brilliant idea to try to 'anonymously blackmail' them into submitting to his twisted demands. I say anonymously with all due sarcasm since he actually called them on their cell phones, in 3-way conference mode, to tell them who was sending the threatening films & demands, so they could know just how serious he was about showing them who the REAL MAN was, meaning himself and not Alan. Fermat and the other kids were just tools in the demonstration, and he told Hiram's son as much during the call."

Jeff passed both hands over his face tiredly as he tried to explain in a way that made sense, what his aquanaut and astronaut sons had done to each other. "Unfortunately, Allie and Fermie have both developed an unforgivingly allergic intolerance for Gordon's type of unseemly humor. Several years ago they took the habit of recording everything passing on their phones, tablets or home entertainment systems to a series of Dark Web, anonymized, mirrored Cloud accounts, in case they needed to prove what kinds of hazing, abuses and violations they had suffered from Gordy, or others as well. Then they did just that; they took the recordings of Gordon's films and lewd threats first to the school's sex assault reporting officer, then they called the town's courthouse to denounce Gordon to the police. When the response they got from the sheriff was lukewarm, due to his being an old family friend to us Tracy's, the boys then took it upon themselves to call the FBI hotline set-up to resolve sex abuse in schools and reformatories across the USA. Those people took it seriously enough to activate the local field office on the case, with an official Bureau investigation now on the books."

Sighing in deep disappointment, Jefferson gazed into empty air as he concluded "There is now an FBI international warrant out for Gordon's arrest, coming from the DOJ central office in Washington DC. The Senior Assistant to the US Attorney signed-off on it. He wants an actual prosecution and court case, in open court before the Federal Bench of Kansas, before year's end. Otherwise, he'll start digging into the entire network of programs, proxies, servers and Tor sites that Gordon used to do his dirty deeds. This would include all of THI's internal operations and our contractors' servers, plus the International Rescue waystations and automated comms relays, which would result in publicly outing us as IR's founders and operators. The media storm would be so bad that even President Harland wouldn't be able to protect us or deflect the heat enough to insure minimal survival for any of us."

John asked in genuine curiosity, though his voice was colored by anxiety as well; "What do you mean, Washington cannot insure OUR minimal survival? What the fucks do we have to do with Gordon's damnable moronism in all of this turgid shyte? None of this is any fault of ours!"

Fermat snorted aloud, faster than Hiram could stop him to keep things polite until the end.

Putting so much contempt in his voice that it was actually impressive for a twelve year old, Fermat declared venomously "When you see the five years' worth of recordings Alan and I have, it'll be clear what the feds think constitute neglect, abuse and sexual assault. And what constitutes willful complicity post-factum, as well as the crime of non-assistance to child in danger, and blaming the victim for the perfidies done. Newsflash; you're all guilty, the films that weren't given the Gordon treatment show it."

Virgil asked his father incredulously "Is he serious? Did Alan really rat us out to the cops? Just cuz he gets disciplined a bit more strictly than normal? It's IR, dammit! International Rescue! We have to pound the snot out of him, if he's to be reliable when he gets aboard the 'Birds! We can't just let him become a dumb punk like nothing matters! And the FBI, of all the cop corps, believed him? What kinds of fucking twits do they have in charge out there?"

Jeff replied tartly "Virgil, shut up. The Senior Assistant to the US Attorney is not an imbecile, and the child welfare laws are not a joke to scoff at. I watched both the deep-fakes Gordon made, and a few of Alan's archives from the Villa's own security cameras. I honestly could not recognize myself when I watched the films, and yet it was me doing those things, day after day, after week, after month, for the last five years, every time he was here from school vacations. He also had recordings in his school dormitory of the times that I had gone to McVeigh in a rage, to administer 'correction' on him, filmed with a hidden security camera that Fermat had installed, in case of theft or bullies trying anything away from teachers. The FBI is investigating me, personally, for several dozen counts of child neglect, abuse, armed assault, denial of medical assistance, denial of succor to child in danger, and ignoring the multiple overtly sexualized attacks of Gordon upon Alan, when he was obliged to come here during the mandatory schoolyear holidays."

Scott wondered in despair "How the Hells did you get out of DC without a shootout? The US Attorneys aren't known for going easy on major child assault cases, especially not when it goes across state lines, or uses military contractor's servers to stalk the victim. How did you manage to leave there, let alone get over here without having a troop of blue suits on your heels?"

Jeff shook his head despondently as he answered "It was a legal technicality as thin as the skin of my teeth, and flimsier than a wet tissue paper full of snot. I confirmed with the actual US Attorney himself, and all his Senior Assistants, the exact location of Tracy Island, 100 miles off the north-east shores of Australia. I validated it by handing over the master passcodes to the THI severs so they could back-trace the private secured command bridge that I use to remotely manage the company, instead of wasting my time in Kansas, New York or DC. With the forensically verified location of Tracy Island now in the files, I argued that the vast majority of the facts reproached had occurred outside of all known national borders and jurisdictions, and so they were actually moot as no court in Kansas or DC could touch the mess."

"Unfortunately, while most of our family life and interactions were now off-limits but still in the books, that did leave those portions of depravity that Gordon made happen inside US soil by nefarious design. Namely the hacking into McVeigh's systems, cyber stalking minors, breach of minors' privacy, making deep-fakes to commit criminal defamation, serial sexual assault of minors via webcam, multiple sexual chantage, attempt at sexual exploitation of multiple minors, production of kiddie porn and its distribution across city, state and national lines. Plus a slew of identity frauds when establishing fake accounts in Alan's name to truly put online the supposed paying web-porn site. And then you have to add all the violence inflicted by Ruth or I in the name of familial punishment. Written child protection laws in the USA count many of the gestures as armed assault and willful injury to a minor, but those can be argued away under our rights of religious faith demanding it to be done that way…"

Ignoring anything about Jeff and Ruth for now cuz he didn't want to think about that mess, John demanded in a low whisper "What did you do to get Gordy off those charges? Like Scott said, the feds don't let go easy, and once it's in the books, nothing erases it. So, big electoral contributions and a few crowd baths during the next campaign, or flat-out gifts to family and friends of politos and cops?"

Jeff folded in half as he put his head in his hands, wondering where his life had all gone to, that this was the sort of conversation he was having with four of his kids, while they were locked-up by the fifth and his mother was alive to see it all. And half the household employees saw it as well, to boot!

"John, son, there was no negotiation. There were no campaign cheques or under-the-table gifts to anybody, not with how many dozens of high-powered lawyers, clerks, secretaries, FBI field agents, school officials, local PD, and no doubt their extended kin by now… No, what happens is that Gordon is persona non grata in USA soil for the remainder of his natural life, and if he ever sets foot inside a nation that is allied with America, they will have him arrested and deported back to the States to finish the investigation and PUBLIC court trial. In that case, all the facts about our household life would be included, even those out of US borders since they count as character testimony, motive and methods for the criminal and his multiple accomplices. Meaning all of us. Basically, if Gordy ever leaves Tracy Island, there's a good chance that we'll all get hoisted to jail soon after they drag him in."

The next sound they heard inaugurated a long hour of feverish activity as Gordon descended into a sobbing, hacking cough inducing, panic attack that had him unconscious in five minutes flat.

As they looked at the entire Tracy mess in progress, or simply in continuity to be honest, the two Hackenbacker's decided to start the procedure needed to get them out. Flying each Thunderbird as a duo would be a good, much needed cool-down period before they faced the rest of the night. At least they had managed to eat their dinner fully before Jefferson had knocked on their door to ruin their lives even more. The rest of the Island's inhabitants probably couldn't say the same, and would have much added discomfort for it, but the father-son pair couldn't be bothered to care anymore, not unless it was Alan involved.

Alan's move away from home

(Real Adventures of Jonny Quest – opening theme)

Tuesday 27th of June, 2034; 8:00am

Menenoa Atoll – IR's development drydock

North-east of the Australian coastline

The blond, blue-eyed teenager yawned widely as he finally managed to complete securing the bloody large installation that was hidden on top of, inside of and underneath, as well as in the underwater middle of, the Menenoa Atoll. The past day and night had been a hot toxic mess of pain, misery, loneliness, and high-speed flight straight ahead, even if it had been planned for three years already.

Alan had captured his family near four-ish in the afternoon, after spending an hour to move the foodstuffs into the IR redoubt, to make certain they would be alive when Jefferson returned from DC with the ill-fated news about Gordon's nitwittery's consequences on the family and associates. While the fools were cooling their heels in the bunker, Alan had met the Hackenbacker's to gently explain everything so they could choose to leave ASAP or after confronting Jeff for his part in the mess that Gordon had wrought. Allie didn't know what good it would do, but Hiram and Fermat both had the right of it, and the victimized teen would not deny them, the same way he had suffered from others.

Sighing again in numb tiredness that was emotional as much as physical, the boy brewed a fresh coffee as he fixed himself a quick cold ham, mustard, cheese and lettuce sandwich in lieu of breakfast. There was still plenty of work to be done before he could call his situation secure enough to sleep.

X - X - X - X

The forlorn, and widely unknown, tropical Menenoa Atoll was a ten kilometers wide ensemble composed of a wide main island with thick arcing arms that formed a half-moon with the opening aimed towards Tracy Island, which lay some twenty-two miles due south. The atoll also had several medium islands, small islets and rocky needles that surrounded it, giving it the appearance of a Hellspawn's crown according to Virgil who'd always had the most literary and poetic soul amongst the Tracy kindred. The center of the half-moon was utterly empty and almost smooth 5 kilometers wide sea lagoon, with an aperture two kilometers wide between the tips of the islands'earthen arms.

Menenoa Atoll was a natural formation, created by a volcano several million years ago, that was then eroded by climate and lowered so much as to become almost hospitable, with flat sandy beaches all around and gently rising plateaus surrounding the main body of the island.

The dozen medium islands ranged between 500 and 1,500 meters wide, relatively flat and covered in palm trees, underbrush and ancient volcanic ejecta that had been worn down to pebbles and sand.

The twenty-one islets, ranging from 500 meters wide down to barely 50 meters, were easy enough to approach by sea, and not too steep to forbid free-climbing the shallow cliffs to reach their accidented plateaus, also covered in nothing but palm trees and underbrush. Most islets could actually have small structures built upon them, if a person had the resources and patience to do it, like Jefferson and Hiram had done, a decade ago.

The seventy-odd stone needles that created the outer perimeter of the atoll were usually 10 meters wide at their thickest, raising some hundred-plus feet above the waves to taper into cracked, jagged tips that looked just as forbidding as they actually were. These needles were surrounded by wild currents that made approach by boat hazardous on calm seas and a guaranteed suicide during storms, Also, the needles actually emerged from a wide ring of raised sea floor that formed a thin but tall reef the high points of which were sharp enough to slash and shred the hulls of most ships in service. Using hovering or anti-grav machines, Hiram had dug into several needles to discretely emplace comms antennas, relays, signal boosters, vari-cams & sensors, and retractable weapons turrets to deflect animals or humans at need.

Menenoa Atoll was the long-forgotten stepping stone from which Tracy Island and its annex, the diminutive Matteo Island, were born, and without which IR would never have been built.

It takes a lot of industrial might to built things like the first four Thunderbirds, T2's cargo modules and the ubiquitous yellow work pods that are the signature of IR. It takes even more space and resources to build the parts and mega-blocks for T5 plus a launchpad and massive rockets to raise it all to orbit. None of which could have occurred inside the tight confines of Tracy Island, much less the almost submerged Matteo next door, which barely rated as more than a barren rock pile anyways.

Menenoa Atoll was thusly chosen by Hiram as the principal warehousing zone, industrial complex and staging area from which everything about IR and the Tracy's capacity to manage their family businesses was planned, built and launched. All the builder-bots that dug-out Tracy Island's wondrous hangars, silos, corridors, and then built the villas, play areas and such, were first built on Menenoa, then shipped to their work site until no longer necessary, whence they were retired to storage in the atoll.

Thunderbirds 1, 2, 3, the Command Center and Lady P's Fab-Carrier were all so massive that it took a specialty-made drydock, unique on Earth right out of Hiram's mind, to assemble the internal skeleton, segments, systems and outer armored hull of the massive machines. It was only once ready for commissioning that they were moved to the finished & waiting Tracy Island silos. T5 was built in mega-blocks and raised heavenwards one segment at a time, being assembled by builder-bots alone until it was ready to be made livable and be commissioned to service. Only T4 and Fab-1 were small enough to be fully built on Tracy Island, but even then, the need for the foundries and mills, auto-assembly deck and builder-bots meant that Hiram always did these jobs on Menenoa Atoll anyways.

Outside, the atoll's surface and forests were somewhat visually empty, except for a few semi-decrepit concrete buildings that were willingly made to look like an old US Navy & Air Force base with sea docks, airfield, and overgrown roads with rusted train tracks embedded in the cracked asphalt. It was all cosmetically adjusted by Hiram to appear as an installation abandoned since World War II passed to memory, and the current threats to US sovereignty no longer haunted the South Pacific Ocean or the Australian shores.

Even the sea floor inside the lagoon and around the atoll looked like normal rock faces, beige tropical sand, living coral reefs and clear blue waters filled with fish and life. That was because all of the heavy industrial and defensive mechanisms were hidden underground, inside the atoll's main body and arms, and at the bottom of the central basin, with several connection tunnels on the outer periphery. Several of the islands & islets around the atoll's outer perimeter were cored-out and filled with secured habitats, designed as long duration bunkers. Each had small garages for boats and planes, infirmary, workshop, comms room, dormitory, refectory and retractable weaponry turrets, including prototype beamers.

The communications way-stations, relays and defensive arrays were spread between the main island, medium islands, smaller islets and rocky needles for a full 360 degree covering, and a broadcast capacity reaching up to 1,200 miles, giving the atoll a power similar to the best AWACS planes or AEGIS sea destroyers in US service.

{ IR } - { Jeff's pimped-out ride } - { SG }

Alan scarfed his bland sandwich and tanked the lukewarm coffee, dumping the soiled dishes in the sink on his way out of the management edifice's cafeteria. The building was excavated out of the main island's central mountain peak, located halfway up the southern façade to overlook the lagoon and fake military base. It also gave an unimpeached view of Tracy and Matteo Islands, when the weather was clear like today's morning.

The fourteen-year-old boy grabbed a small 4-wheeled trolley next to the cafeteria's door, heavily laden with his personal belongings and favorite toolkits, to make his escape more likely to succeed. Just outside the eating area he entered an elevator to go down to the main cold-parking hangars so he could take possession of his final prize, the reason for coming here in the first place instead of just going to Australia to lose himself in the crowds of Sidney or Melbourne.

The elevator doors opened on a mostly dark corridor, showing it to still be in power-save mode, as nobody alive had visited this place in almost three years that he could divine from the activity logs in the atoll servers. Lighting the LED lamp hidden in his belt buckle, the boy walked assuredly in the fifteen feet wide corridor as if he did it every day, unconcerned that vermin or squatters could have entered, as they clearly could never penetrate the thick cement and steel plating that composed the walls.

Arriving at cold-parking hangar #3 of 7 units, Alan used a master key that he had copied from the originals kept in Jeff's office. The combination metal key with embedded circuitry was another idea from Hiram, and just as reliable today as the moment he milled it. The massive cargo doorway split down the middle and slid apart with nary a sound. There was no 'woosh' of air rushing in to fill the vacuum since Allie had used his first half-hour on the atoll to restart basic life-support to those sectors he would have to visit physically. All other areas were still locked-down without atmosphere or warmth, and the other garages also had gaseous nitrogen to keep the precious and sensitive vehicles from rusting to uselessness from prolonged disuse.

Alan slowly walked into the hangar, looking down the length of the massive airship that lay on its maintenance cradle, as monolithic and intimidating as the last time the boy had seen the thing. That was nearly three years ago, when his family started getting truly worse due to Gordon's recovery from his hydrofoil accident having been completed. After two years of enforced semi-crippled state with a wheelchair instead of legs, the teenager had been in the sort of mood that meant somebody had to suffer for the pranking time and juvenile delinquencies he hadn't been able to enjoy fully, and so Alan began to truly suffer at his hands, whenever the older boy could lay his mitts on him.

It was one of Gordy's many 'Sweet Sixteen' dangerous pranks laced Day-of-Idiocies that finally made Jefferson give up on ever having a central command ship to supervise operations in the field, as he was afraid of what Gordon would do if he were left at home alone, without a real adult to control him. Not that Jeff's method of control had ever worked with any of the kids, and he wasn't what Allie would consider a genuine adult either, given he drank and smoked like a twink clubbie at all hours, as if he was enrolled in one of those worthless 'party universities' that dotted the USA landscape.

The IR flying Command Center spaceship.

Based on a common form, the ship had a long body with wide wings that were a full floor thick at the ends where they held nacelles for positioning jets, guide thrusters, lateral sensors and forward 'hunting' gunnery that retracted fully into the nosecones.

Deceivingly, it looked like a glorified cargo plane but was in fact a massive spaceship, able of reaching orbit and returning into atmosphere without external boosters or a special launchpad. The humongous ship was had a main body 750 feet long, 150 feet wide, and four levels (40 feet high) in the fuselage. To this were added a one-floor high (10 feet) partial lower-deck beneath as cargo/dive manager bridge, and a two-floor high (20 feet) conn tower on the dorsal aspect as main command bridge & sensor hub.

The wings were 250 feet each in span, some 150 feet from front to rear, and 20 feet thick where they attached to the fuselage, with their underside being 10 feet higher than the fuselage's belly so as to create a sheltered area when parked on the ground. This allowed to do a first disembarking of people and machines before deciding to lift the ship on its hydraulic legs to unlimber the cargo module, or else use the bow and stern landing ramps.

And the bloody thing was armed to the teeth like none of the other 'Birds had ever seen. Truthfully, only T4 was truly armed since it had torpedoes, depth charges and cutting lasers on the ends of articulated manipulator arms to effectuate underwater rescues in accidented worksites like oil rigs or sunken ships. Not a single Thunderbird had been meant to be armed, and not just because Jeff was afraid of public or governmental reactions if they discovered weapons on the ships.

No, the real reason was that Jeff operated under the antiquated morals that said "only the Pater Familias has any right to hold weapons and threaten family members with pain or injury if they challenged him". The Command Center was not just a mobile dispatching hub or portable hospital, or mobile tech support for damaged 'Birds. No; it was specifically Jefferson's proven ability to go anywhere on Earth, in the Oceans or in space to fetch his boys to inflict righteous Christian disciplinings (beatings), at his leisure and convenience.

The flying CC was a technological wonder of this age, and doubtless one of Hiram's most advanced ship to date, with all of THI, IR and external contracts compared. The ship had everything that was split between the other 'Birds packed into one extra-large body, with a set of luxury rooms too, for the exclusive usage of Jefferson and his 'trusted chosen' who had a permanent berth aboard.

The ship had full VTOL abilities due to eight clusters of OmniVek thrusters similar to T2's positioning and hovering thrusters, but hybridated with T4's turbines to allow amphibious work without special preparations. The main propulsion group was composed of four pairs of Fusion-Ionic hybrid engines that combined the aspects of T1 and T3 together for moving in water, air or space without needing different fuels or special preparations before transitions. This meant that the ship could reach the impressive 25% of sublight speed, the best human-made design to date. On top of that, the massive rocket tandems could push the ship at a mindboggling (FTL) Faster-Than-light factor of 1,35 or one-and-a-third times the speed of light. This was direct vectoring movement, not a hyperspace tunnel nor warp field, both technologies that Hiram was investigating occasionally, when he wanted 'fun' things to do. Still, the ability to reach the Moon in a few hours, or Mars in barely a week, was almost priceless for a group that dedicated its existence to saving others in the nick of time.

Hiram had managed to build the first human prototype for long-range space exploration, all without any military or governmental implication in his research. While Jeff had scuppered THI's publicly acknowledged Project Zero-X sponsored by NASA and the US Space Force, the technology had in fact been finished and put in service, but exclusively and secretly for IR.

Then it was cold-stored here and forgotten, because Jeff didn't want to risk revealing to the rest of the world that it was possible, and available. His fragile ego would never have withstood it, seeing his precious Proof of Power being converted into an everyday machine for cargo and passenger ships owned by public companies and national militaries, and none of them impressed by him anymore.

Anyhow, besides monster engines, the ship had eight small retractable pivoting beam weapons that were located at the forward and rear corners of the main body, thus serving as CWIS and tertiary armaments. The Main weapons were the wide-bore 'Pulse Torrent' in the ship's nose, and the hunting pulse cannons in the wingtips. The secondary weapons were Phonon Masers, placed in pairs in four retractable turrets that were located on top of and underneath the thicker parts of the wings, to create four independent 180 x 90 degree firing arcs that could push-back against other ships, planes, or boats that were trying to approach from a blind angle.

Besides the multiple beam weapons, the Command Center also had two dozen vertical launch tubes for medium anti-ship / anti-bunker missiles (Exocet-VII), two depth charge launchers at the stern, and four banks of chaff grenades placed one at each corner of the fuselage.

The ship's most reliable defenses however were the superior EWC suite & antennas, a layer of Velocium alloy all over the external surfaces, and two layers of sensor deflection fields. The ship was almost invisible to radar, sonar, radiation detectors and thermal cameras. Whatever else did manage to pass through would bounce off the Velocium skin, giving back an image that was distorted beyond the capacity of any comms operator to recognize, thus insuring nobody could trace the ship in flight.

Among the other features the CC had taken from the other Birds were the massive movable cargo module that was an exact copy of T2's basic system & function. The rocket anchors were shaped like four-fingered claws instead of just flat electro-magnets, and there were twelve (3 x clusters of 4) so the massive ship could hoist a much bigger weight & shape than T2 did. And like T2, the module could be extruded beneath or above the main fuselage, just in front of the conning tower. There were hard-docking collars with airlocks on all six sides of the vehicle, to allow passage underwater or in space without deploying a connector tube or bringing a dangerous vehicle inside either the cargo hold or built-in garage decks.

X - X - X - X

Alan snapped himself out of his contemplations about the flying horror show that lay silent in its berth, cold and lonely, forgotten and abandoned just like he had been so many times in his childhood. But like him, the vehicle existed and so it must now wake-up and move, or die one last, true death.

Climbing into the capital ship that every nation on Earth would kill to own, the boy slowly pushed his dolly of stuff up the stern truck ramp, then the internal elevator towards the topmost floor, just under the ship's main roof line. He needed to make a pair of pitstops in the luxury offices before he went to the main bridge to take control of the monstrously overbuilt vehicle.

The first place he aimed for was Jefferson's reserved private office & suite. The bastard had always told them that accommodations in Thunderbirds 1 thru 5 were so slim and menial because he was used to designing at military standards, and the US Space Force built things the same way the US Navy did. You put in the weapons first, then engines & fuel, then life-support, the general mechanical & support systems, and lastly went in the people's utilities. And that last item meant bunked racks, communal washrooms and communal food dispensaries. Nothing private except for the upper officers who had strategic or diplomatic data on hand to keep safe & secret. Data which none of his sons or external partners of IR would ever have, so all the Thunderbirds were built with cheap-arsed living spaces for the five boys to eke-out a meager life during their mandatory tours of duty.

Even Thunderbird-5, almost the size of the Command Center, had only minimalist permanent habitation and guest bunkies, nothing that looked like a real bedroom or private area. The people up there were onboard to work, not rest or play, according to Jeff's personal crusade against accidents and natural catastrophes. Pretty much the same for T1, T2 and T3. And nobody wanted to speak about the dumb tuna can of a death-trap T4! That design was even more insidious against its pilot, since Jeff had envisioned one or two pilots being cooped inside the cockpit with nothing but two bucket seats and dry rations for up to two weeks at a time. Certainly never something he would endure for himself!

Exhaling a breath of anger and stress, Alan used the copied master key to unlock the disused office, since the other partitions of the suite did not have their own doorways into the corridor. The office was basically a copy of the one on Tracy Island; a big metal desk covered in faux-wood veneer so artificial that an idiot would know it, huge leather covered wheeled chair for him, and five small hard-backed wood chairs for visitors. 5 sons so 5 chairs, and none anywhere near comfortable for more than a quarter hour, because he liked to see people squirm and hurt while he lounged in luxury.

On the left hand was a massive wooden wet-bar with a quartz top and sink, backlit racks for glassware and bottles, and vertical backlit humidor for cigars, and the door to the manservant's room. On the right were large metal filing cabinets that were waist-high with a common quartz top making a long flat work surface for Jeff's projects, steel workshop cabinets hung on the wall above the benchtop, and the door to the Master's private bed & bath.

Alan sat in his father's chair, pulling out the thick central drawer that was proven to be a permanently placed folding computer. The lower part was the keyboard and the monitor was above, but both were essentially a uniformly smooth crystal panel with a joint in the middle to fold like a laptop. The device booted up inside of a minute, then Alan tapped an access sequence that unlocked a secret compartment in the bedroom.

Standing from the chair, the teenager walked briskly for the bedroom, knowing in advance what he would find, as he had memorized the blueprints four years back and no work had been done to the vehicle since.

The private room was just as ostentatious and gaudy as he had seen in the building phases' records; a massive king-sized bed in genuine English oak bearing dark red velvet covers and pillows. The massive headboard was a built-in unit that incorporated the nightstands, sculpted headboard and overhead shelves, as well as an extra air conditioner for much cooler air. The foot of the bed was a built-in bench-chest with ornately sculpted high backrest and armrests, all in oak with decorative veneer and lacquer for that exotic look.

There were dry vanity tables and armoires on each side of the room, clearly showing that it had been meant from the very beginning for Jeff to have a life companion, or a 'putain choisie' like the French say, staying aboard full-time. You could see the mongrel's dishonesty and lubricitous perversion in how this room was designed, unlike the cheap, menial, almost monastic bunks he was imposing on all his sons and partners.

And Alan had no doubts as to whom that would have been.

Jeff had, after all, gifted Lady Penelope with an Australian ranch aptly named 'Bonga Bonga'.

As if any of his kids or employees were blind!

Ever since the strutting English bitch had turned 23 years old, she had been attached to Jeff's cocktip like a lamprey and never let go. Whether she was a classic sugar baby or England's MI-5 really did order her to spy on the Tracy's for a bevvy of reasons was up to this day an unresolved query.

Not that Alan cared enough to make any effort to find out. Having the she-spy inside his home was bad enough, but trying to anger the nest of them back in Jolly Old Albion was not on his list of things to do while escaping from Tracy Hell.

Sighing deeply as he made an effort to evacuate his anger rather than waste time in a Tracy Tantrum as the others would no doubt let loose in his situation, the adolescent schooled his emotions to continue across the room for the last door, the private en-suite bathroom.

Jefferson had thought it to be the height of humor, as well as the best hidden security, to hide a combination lock in the bathroom. This lock served as a kill-switch to prevent anybody from stealing the Command Center as the only functions that would work were life support, infirmary equipment, workshop tools and the remote management linkup. All mobility except inert buoyancy, all weaponry, most of the comms & sensors, and the cargo module's hoist would all stay dead.

Given Jeff's juvenile and immaturely crude sense of humor when Penny, Onaha or Kyrano weren't present, Alan wasn't surprised to find the combination mechanism hidden inside the water tank of the toilet. Pulling a foot-long screwdriver with a special tip from his toolbelt, the teen configured the seven small dials at the bottom of the empty water tank, as the plumbing part of life-support wasn't active yet, not until he claimed the bridge after this dead-lock was tripped properly.

Once all seven dials were set on the appropriate glyphs from a secret code Jeff had created, the last part was to kneel next to the toilet and turn one of the four valves that were fixed to plumbing. One pipe was the water intake, two would release a sedative gas in the room as an alarm blared across all of IR, and the one real knob would make one last dial reveal itself, but in the very bottom of the toilet's bowl. This last dial had a second glyph set, invented by Hiram when he was still living in the orphanage, so he could encode his earlier R&D so the little thugs wouldn't steal his ideas.

Once the long screwdriver had set the last dial and pushed down hard, several colored LED's around the bathroom glowed to indicate the master kill-switch had been disactivated correctly and the ship would now enter service safely, thinking that Jeff was physically present aboard. Since the server stacks had no pseudo-personality the way Hiram's pet robot Max did, it would be a very quick job for Alan to use the folding computer in his dad's office to input a root-kit and several hijacking apps to usurp ownership from the old man's filthy hands over to his own self.

About a half-hour later and the boy was now able to go for his second pitstop, before the bridge to complete his power-grab and leaving this hellish life behind.

X - X - X - X

Alan left Jeff's old office only to enter the suite of rooms right across the corridor.

Because he knew just how bad an engineer he was, Jeff had wanted to keep Hiram at hand's reach, and that meant Fermat as well. Therefore, the duo had been told to design for themselves an integrated suite that would serve all their needs when accompanying Jefferson during operations or diplomatic meetings for IR.

The main room was as large as Jeff's office, but split down the middle, with a long conference table to sit eight people in the center, two large drawing tables side-by-side against the far wall, and NASA-styled built-in desk & cabinetry against the two side walls. Unlike Jeff, all the chairs were the same, and looked so comfy they literally invited you to sit for a chat just by appearance only.

On each side wall were the doorways that lead to the private ensuite bath & bed rooms, made exactly the same size and style but inversed like mirror images. Also, each of the Hackenbacker's rooms only held a single-person bed, and all the armoires, cabinets and dry vanity clearly displayed that the persons who used the rooms were supposed to be alone and celibate during their stay inside the ship, unlike their lubricitous boss, who openly flaunted his 'Putain' for all to see.

Alan snorted nastily to himself as he sat at the desk that was reserved for Hiram, pulling out a steel ring with copies of the professor's master keys, made at the same time as Jeff's. In a few minutes, the teenager had obtained what he needed; the magnetic pass-cards to temporarily give any console aboard the same rights as the bridge's piloting, engineering or command stations, during emergencies or very capricious repairs.

Since Alan was leaving alone, he needed to have absolute access to all functions and parts of the massive Command Center, or else the first small problem would force him to land and abandon ship.

As he was sitting in Hiram's chair, Allie thought for a few minutes about the man who was the only true adult and father-figure in his entire life. He was sad to leave the man and his son behind, but he understood that they would take the chance to break-away from Jeff at last. Fermat had admitted last year that the only reason they stayed was to protect Alan, on those few times he came to the island. So, Alan could understand why they had chosen to not come with him. That, plus the fact that Jeff could hardly invoke any sort of authority over Fermat while Hiram was alive, and for all his violence towards his sons, Jeff was actually deathly afraid of Hiram's innate nastiness. Whether that was based on facts or just the old astronaut's own bigotry was anybody's guess, and Alan didn't care enough to know.

Sighing forlornly, the boy opened the desk drawers, just in case he would find something that Hiram had left behind by accident, or on purpose since he did oftentimes pack caches of equipment, in case he needed to survive an accident or kidnapping attempt. Cuz, yeah, as primary technical advisor for THI, some crazies had gotten it in their heads that grabbing Hiram or Fermat would obtain them some easy access into the company's databases, like the bank account numbers or the patents not yet filed. It never worked out for the guys, and they were usually much worse-off afterwards, so who knew? Maybe Jeff's idea about Hiram being nasty was real?

Alan exclaimed a soft "Hey! Gold mine!" as he pulled out the central drawer of the desk and felt underneath for the secret sliding compartment that Hiram built into all his administrative desks, be they in buildings or vehicles. Even the mobile tech-analytics lab used to maintain the Thunderbirds had a slider under the main console, though only three people alive knew about it. The secret thin drawer was partitioned to hold items still and silent in felt-padded holes, a bit like the flatware holder in a kitchen drawer. These were some small tools that Hiram had designed over the years and always kept in stock everywhere he worked, as they could be used in a fight or escape scenario as much as regular R&D.

The first tool was one of Alan's personal favorites; an imitation Swiss Army knife, but IR edition, with mini electro-magnetic grappling claw to get stuff fallen into sewers or vents or between machinery parts; vibro-blade scissors that cut steel wires or fencing, a small cutting laser that could chop a truck's engine block in halves, a de-Gausser system to demagnetize or deionize items, and many more ordinary tools like the dreadful 'Spork' to eat MRE's. The knife's two outer casings were IR blue & gold themed, and flipped open to reveal miniature analog compass, clock and folding sextant on one side, with a wind-up network wire, Flash card reader slot and MP-7 player on the other. The belt sheath for the large knife had a few other things in pockets; transparent plastic slide-rule and angle-rule, a steel caliper with a sharp point at each arm, a small glass slat that was a magnifying glass with a built-in LED to read at night, and a whetstone made of compressed synthetic rock-dust.

The second tool that Alan took for himself was supposed to be a joke item, something that Hiram had built just to prove that it was feasible, if enough time and intellect were poured on the problem. Having had one too many arguments with Lady Penelope about the sci-fi TV series 'Doctor Who' being too outrageous to be credible, Hiram had built the fabled Sonic Screwdriver. The device was slim and round, with openings at both ends. One end wielded electro-magnetic fields to pull, push or move sideways anything it grabbed in the yard long field. The other end emitted a variable Photonic Maser beam that could reach out to 500 yards to cut, ignite, scorch, weld or fuse whatever it touched. In that same end was the Phonon Maser that reached 25 yards and could be used to either drill, cut, make a small blasting effect, compact a 2 yards wide area, or sweep away debris with soundwaves gently enough to remove only 1 molecule thick at a time, or up to a foot deep if necessary.

Snort! Not only had Hiram put the cold-cunted bint in her place, he had actually improved the design of the tool versus the original, and weaponized it too! The older scientist had managed to miniaturize one of IR's rescue cutters into a smaller frame while keeping the range, strength and added all the options that Jeff had deemed too complex for paramedic gear to have.

Smiling widely at his brand-new 'Beam Sword', Alan stashed the device in his flannel shirt's pocket, as he would be setting all the sheaths on his belt at the same time, a bit later.

The third tool he found that warranted keeping was one Hiram had invented in elementary school, due to the harsh orphanage he had lived in. It was a 'tactical pen'. It looked like a much larger than normal ink pen with multiple sliders on the top that indicated which color nib would come out of the working end. A well-known device that had existed since the 1980's at the least, and well favored by copy editors or blueprint correctors. In this case, on top of having glow-in-the-dark inks in white, blue, green, yellow, red and purple, the pen also had a few 'extra' attachments that school teachers and orphanage matrons would have screamed about. The first extra was a 2 inch long needle that was hard enough to pick through ice, tempered glass, particle board, sheet gyprock, linoleum and most plastics. This point could also heat enough to light-up materials like a car cigarette lighter, or brand glyphs into stuff. Another was a 2 inch long, very thin two-sided blade made of armored steel alloy that could cut through a soldier's body-armor without breaking or bending, making it an incredibly good survival knife. It had no point, instead being shaped like a mini-prybar to pick open doors or windows. The third slider was shaped like an old dipping-pen nib, but it was very small and tightly curved to fit into the same runnels as the other cartridges. This nib held etching acid to mark machinery parts during crafting, or deface computer parts to render them useless to thwart kidnappers.

Giving a truly amused smirk, Alan took up the last of the small gimmicks he wanted to keep; a metal cigarette case with a folding side panel. In reality, the case held only ten tubes instead of the twenty that similar sized cases would, the rest being a miniature HAM radio & Sat phone combo with one of the best Holonet emitters that Hiram had built to date. In fact, the wrist-mounted TB controllers that were basic IR gear were based on this little beauty. The ten paper tubes were fakes; diverse smoke signal torches that burned for three hours even underwater, and micro-explosives to pass through obstacles during escape from a kidnapping or tight spot with a rescue gone bad. The last useful parts of the casing were the built-in kerosene flint-wheel lighter, a digital clock & media player off-shot from the sat phone's chipset, and handy LED flashlight with variable coloration to guide rescuers towards the person wielding the case.

There were a few other items in the drawer, but Alan already had his own versions, made by how own hands under Hiram's guidance at the same time as he showed Fermat how to craft the tools and weapons needed to insure his safety and independence from bullies like Jeff, Ruth or Gordon.

Getting away from the desk, Allie went to the drawing tables, just to be sure he wasn't leaving behind something useful. No, there was nothing be found, since the Hackenbacker's had left nothing of value at the obsolete workspace once they knew it was going into cold-parking inside Menenoa Atoll.

Alan lowered his head in melancholy, closing his eyes for a few seconds before he walked out of the disused office, leaving behind far more than just old memories and broken wishes as he departed.

X - X - X - X

Walking slowly, the teenager pushed his trolley full of personal effects back to the elevator and got inside, punching the button to the bridge deck, in the top of the conn tower. A few seconds later and he was pushing his meager burden onto the elevated platform from which Jeff and Hiram would have overseen the large vehicle's many operations as they occurred. The pilots, comms, engineers and weapons were located on the 'main dorsal', the floor beneath, but fully in reach since the command platform was made like an open mezzanine, so Jeff could shout at the people 'beneath' him.

Allie sat in the chair reserved for his father while ruthlessly repressing his anger at the sight of the ugly pink & silver chair on the left side, reserved for Lady Penelope in case she was needed on-screen during diplomatic meetings with governmental officials that wanted to block IR's passage. Hiram's chair on the right side was much more sedate and appropriate for a public workspace, while Jeff's oversized leather-clad throne was as gaudy as any third world country's tyrant. Honestly, lacquered mahogany trimmed with gold-leaf inlays, on board of a rescue ship! What was the fool thinking about when he made that choice?

Forcing himself to focus on the console's buttons and touchscreens, the adolescent began the lengthy, onerous process of waking-up the flying behemoth so it could serve him now, as it had been intended to serve the Tracy Family, once upon a time. As soon as all the preflight indicators were green or yellow, Allie stood from the chair to go tie the cart with his personal belongings to Lady P's unoccupied chair, as he was not yet sure where he wanted to live, aboard the omnibian ship. Technically, he should take Jeff's room to complete his takeover, but the suite had some incredibly bad emotions attached, and Hiram's suite made him feel like he would be kicking his friends out of his life if he moved into it on a permanent basis.

Sighing at another problem to solve, the youth shoved his hands in his cargo pants' pockets as he walked off the command platform, aiming for the elevator. A swift ride down had him walking through the stern parking garage to review a few of his first creations. They were more on the useful side of things, and not very personal since he'd essentially upgraded or copied machines that already existed.

Skyblade; quite simply an armored autonomous drone version of IR's spaceboard that Alan had made firstly as a practice into creating robots, and then because he might need a quick getaway when under attack. This was one of the teen's earliest designs, when he was barely 10 years old. The Skyblade has a pair of Phonon shotguns (front & back) and four smoke grenades in fixed ejectors to disorient pursuers.

Aeroquad; basically Alan took IR's minimalist prototype antigravity bikes and rebuilt the frames into something able of holding the weight of two adults and two field kits. He had managed to stabilize the gravity field by using two main projectors and four small directional emitters in the folding wheels system that he had copied from Fab-1's motor. This ensured the quad could roll, float like a SeaDoo or fly at 1,000 feet high at 120mph. The carrying capacity was limited to duffle bag sized baskets in front and back, and a towing joint for the new 4' x 8' anti-grav flatbed trailer. The Aeroquad had a pair of Photon Maser pistols fixed to the sides of the front basket plus automated Phonon shotguns in articulated mounts, one on each side of the rear basket to serve as CIWS against side & rear threats. There were also four smoke grenades and four flash-bang-salt grains grenades to deal with persistent enemies.

Alanvan; one of the first truly complex designs Alan had created at barely age 11. This was based on Fab-1's mobility and functions, but it was framed as a large commercial panel-van to go on long-range errands or camping with friends. Like Fab-1, the Alanvan could go underwater down to 3,000 feet or fly up to 20,000 feet in altitude, with similar speeds but less maneuverability due to the heavier mass and bulkier shape. On the other hand, the van had two rocket grapple lines on each side, the motor-wheels were actually the upgraded folding mecha-legs version, thus having shredding claw and energy weapons inside. Plus, Alan had hidden a pair of swiveling weapons turrets on the roof disguised as air conditioning units that held a pair of Phonon Maser shotguns and one Photon long-rifle for the extra reach and slashing sweeps at distance. The underside of the van had several grenades in fixed ejectors, just in case of determined pursuit, among many scenarios. Inside there were two pivoting seats in front with a small wet bath, a mini-fridge with dry pantry next to it, a medium-sized electrical combo microwave & toaster oven, and upper cabinets for a bit of storage. The cargo portion of the van could hold a standard 4' wide x 8' long x 6' high load up to 4,000 pounds (2 tons). The van was wide enough that Alan had been able to include a permanent fold-down single bed with a similar shelf above, and a multi-media touchpanel with Holonet projector on the opposing side, to use the vehicle as long-duration shelter if he got stuck in a storm or emergency when moving away from his hidden shelter. Stuff like clothes and hygiene products could be bought over the web, yes, but they never fit as well as when you could see them first, and try out if possible. And he could not have anything delivered at the CC anyways.

Power-loader (mini-Gundam); this was more a toy for Alan to play with than a serious attempt at a tool or weapon, but it ended-up being a truly credible machine and the basis for all the reasoning and plans Allie would make later. Created at the end of his first year in secondary school, during forlorn summer vacations at Tracy Island, this was something he had decided on after seeing Virgil wearing the IR exoskeleton to move cargo in the hangars. The Power-loader was simply an oversized and boosted copy of that exosuit. The first thing Alan had done was calculate how much bigger the hydraulic systems had to be to carry an overweight adult user, a large field-pack and solid covering all over the machine, plus extra devices built-in. This included vari-cams and sensors in the new 'head' that was well above the enclosed cab that held the user. The pilot would now have his arms completely inside the cab, not through the suit's arms anymore, instead suing joysticks and a keyboard to control the manipulators. The legs and walking movements would still depend on the pilot's natural balance and motions, but through a few extensions and hydraulic actuators. The result was a ten foot tall 'mini-Gundam' that could float on anti-grav fields, walk on legs, or swim in water although lacking grace and stability. Seeing this, Alan immediately added weapons to make the non-specialized machine useful for more than just hoisting loads around the IR garages. He added four small Phonon pistols around the faceplate of the head to act as CIWS against grenades and small nearby threats, then full-strength Phonon shotguns at the articulated hip joints, and two Photonic Maser long-rifles on articulated shoulder joints. This was completed by pistol-sized Photonic maser, Phonon maser and rail-gun for physical bullets on each forearm, and retractable Velocium coated claws in the tips of the manipulator hands and humanoid feet, to help with climbing or hand-to-hand fighting. The final result was a bind-boggling, fully functional warbot that even Hiram and Fermat envied, and helped to improve until the trio of friends were all satisfied.

Alan got into the drive-cabin of the mini-Gundam, activating the machine and walking it all the way to the edge of the garage deck's stern boarding ramp. His last creations were moving in on their own power, and he wanted to inspect them as they passed. The teenager had no trouble admitting that he had been inspired by the old TV series and movies that had marked sci-fi in North-America since the 1950's; Star Trek and Star Wars especially, the beloved old 1980's GI Joe and Transformers cartoons, and most importantly, the iconic series of the early 2000's - Wormhole X-Treme.

It was an ARMY OF AUTONOMOUS ROBOTS.

All these robots were based on work already done by Hiram and Fermat during all the R&D for IR's own construction phase and maintenance cycles, plus the automation of the inventory racks for the OmniKonnekt switching systems that were fundamental to the Work-Pods.

Alan had simply copied and tailored the AI made by his friends for their pet robot Max by removing the personality and character quirks, then splicing the OS with International Rescue's mainframe OS, apps and protocols to produce the cybernetic backbone to a fleet of stable, reliable workers and defenders. He had even made them all capable of responding to 'native language' verbal commands, just like Max did, but without the fusses that the pet-bot inevitably committed. As an extension of this function, the robots were all able to answer verbally as well, and serve as linguistics translators for written, spoken or gestural communications thus making each one an international workforce to be reckoned with in any domain.

Then Alan had designed a system like Hiram's OmniKonnekt but for small-scale devices that allowed him to prefabricate parts to then quickly assemble the types of robots that he needed out of stockpiled limbs and segments. It also meant that several machines or devices for human usage had been adapted to clip-on to the robots to be used directly by the internal link-ups, thus freeing the bots' hands to keep on working or defending, as required.

The basic robotic parts & segments are such:

Head; each robotic head was vaguely humanoid in shape & size, and was the same regardless of which class/type/unit was assembled. The head held/organized the vari-cams, sensors, microphones, speakers, and antennae. There were optics all around the sides and top of the head to ensure that the bots had no accidents while moving items or persons. Also, the design had four small colored LED sets to serve as illumination or coded signals to show the bots' condition. These colored lights could serve to guide people on site towards an emergency instead of flares or smoke canisters, both of which had several drawbacks and risks especially at a manufacture or chemical spill. There were no mobile or articulated features on the heads so as to ensure the best endurance and longevity for the parts as they were finnicky to build and fit inside the tightly limited frame.

Arm – manipulator; this looked like a normal humanoid arm with a 5-fingered hand at the end. All the joints were single sided but the rotation cuffs could pivot 360° so that the limb could reach behind the bot it was attached to just easily as it moved in the front. Each arm held several of Hiram's best ideas for optimal work. The forearm top had a Photon Maser (500 yards) and Phonon Maser (250 yards) to serve as basic cutting/welding tools and minimal fighting ability, while the underside held sockets to plug a rocket-grapple or other IR rescue devices. Both assemblies had a combo LED and miniature vari-cam on each side of them to grant the robot forward and sideways illuminated sight. Together, the tool & camera systems could protrude from the forearm covering to bypass clothing and armors. The fingers ended with thin sharpened triangular claws that could retract inside, leaving only the rubberized tips to safely maneuver objects or persons. Inside each finger were retractable tools similar to Swiss Army knives, plus miniaturized workshop tools and a better version of the Sonic Screwdriver in the index finger. The palm of the hand could be magnetized to grip metallic surfaces or recover dropped items. Alan had also made sure to have a small LED and vari-cam inside the palm to let the robot have near-sight and micro-vision in case it had to reach into a big machine but had no direct line with its head-mounted scanners.

Arm – claw; this looked more like a machinery system as the limb was very tubular, the joints were two-sided and the rotator cuffs were reinforced to tolerate extra weight and strain. This arm ended in a rotating four-fingered claw that could close to form an empty onion-shaped shell, or close just two fingers to form a large scoop. The use of this high-speed spinning claw was to pick, shovel, drill, saw, hack and tear apart materials for resources or during combat. This was the 'heavy work' limb that Alan had set his mind on for most of the resource gathering – processing and cargo moving. The forearm top had a Photon Maser (500 yards) and Phonon Maser (250 yards) to serve as basic cutting/welding tools and minimal fighting ability, while the underside held sockets to plug a rocket-grapple or other IR rescue devices. Both assemblies had a combo LED and miniature vari-cam on each side of them to grant the robot forward and sideways illuminated sight. Together, the tool & camera systems could protrude from the forearm covering to bypass clothing and armors. The tips of the claw fingers were permanent triangular blades coated with Velocium alloy to avoid getting stuck in sappy wood or other gluey matter, and they could be energized to emit an electro-magnetic repelling wave. Inside the claw was a powerful Phonon Maser array that served as heavy sonic broom to sweep clear large areas, or to batter down walls and vehicles. The internal facets of the claw could be magnetized to grip metallic surfaces or recover dropped items. Alan had also made sure to have a small LED and vari-cam inside the claw to le the robot have near-sight and micro-vision in case it had to reach into a big machine but had no direct line with its head-mounted scanners.

Leg – basic; looking humanoid in shape and function, this was reserved for the 'bipod' types of bots who would do the light work & service around Alan. At the 'hip' joint was a port to plug in power, network and hydraulic fluid lines to recharge the machine, or boost it during heavy work. The limb's only special features were the permanent grapple-anchor in the lower leg (calf) and the magnetizable sole under the humanoid foot so as to adhere to metal surfaces in EVA operations.

Leg – mech; this was clearly a machinery system as it was tubular with joints that flexed both ways and heavily reinforced rotator cuffs meant to tolerate a lot of weight and strain. At the 'hip' joint was a port to plug in power, network and hydraulic fluid lines to recharge the machine, or boost it during heavy work. The lower leg (calf) had two permanent rocket grapples that could aim & fire independently, and a hydraulic screw-jack to attach itself to the ground or surface where the bot was working. The foot was actually an idea based on the motor-wheels from Fab-1; a rubber wheel from which emerged a large four-fingered claw similar to the work-arm. This meant that this limb could be used to roll at good speed on most surfaces, or open-up like an alien foot to walk around accidented zones. But they also allowed the bot to move under water quickly or hover slowly, as needed. The claw itself had the same work & combat abilities as the arm-mech.

Torso – man; simple as it sounded, a humanoid shaped thorax that held the CPU and main systems of the bot like batteries or liquid fuels, thermal control, hydraulic core and a few more. There were only five OmniKonnekt ports on this piece to attach one head, two arms and two legs. There were small permanent hard-points on the back, chest and shoulder pads to clip-on temporary tools or weapons as the work needed. A thin line of LED's and miniature vari-cams was installed around the neck port, in case the head was destroyed.

Torso – hybrid; human-sized thorax but with four arm sockets and the ability to use the claw-legs instead of being limited to the normal humanoid version. This was not something that Alan envisioned having to use a lot, but during his R&D he had needed to create this as stepping stone for the next type.

Torso – mech; this was a human-sized but very bulky, angular thorax with OmniKonnekt ports for one head, four arms and four legs. There were also hydraulic/powered hard-points on the shoulders, back and hips to attach temporary tools or weapons that needed heavy support and mobility for full usage. This thorax also had a small air compressor/vacuum pump and a water pump to help shoot anti-fire fluids during a blaze, but all the hoses and produce reserves would have to be carried externally, or tapped into like a fire hydrant or stream. The 'mech' torso had bigger batteries and better thermal control, and a much stronger hydraulic core similar to the one used by Hiram in IR's exoskeleton used by Virgil.

Transport pad; simply a flatbed 4'x8' cargo plate with four powered claw-wheels to ensure the same mobility as the robots. The pad usually attached behind one (or two) of the larger bots to move heavy loads and network wires hard-connected the main bot to its dependent component to guarantee fully synchronous movements and reactions in emergencies. There were small folding hooks to pass ropes, straps, or chains to lash down the load safely.

Carrier-box; an armored box 4' wide x 8' long x 2' high that normally held valuables, munitions or delicate electronics. The box was climatized and pressurized so it could be used as a rescue pod for injured people, or to transport small livestock, or ship perishable foods/medicines. Mounted on four claw-wheels, the carrier was usually attached permanently to one or two of the Tetrabots at the pelvic joint. Network wires hard-connected the main bot to its dependent component to guarantee fully synchronous movements and reactions in emergencies. The top of the box was flat to be able to lug more cargo, and so there were small folding hooks to pass ropes, straps, or chains to lash down the extra load safely.

Workshop; a carrier-box with a flat top and several sockets for power, compressed air, water, network and rotary tool cables. Larger power tools and raw materials were kept inside the box while the surface served as bench to patch, repair, assemble or craft anything necessary for the job. There were small folding hooks around the tabletop to pass ropes, straps, or carabiners to lash down the extra load safely.

Lab-cart; a carrier-box topped with a rectangular crystal enclosure to work on delicate experiments. This was a portable laboratory with sensitive equipment and costly devices, but it could solve most problems involving biology, health or material sciences. This was a compact version of the giant wheeled monster-truck that Hiram used inside Tracy Island or Menenoa Atoll to fix the Thunderbirds. It could also serve as a dedicated patient gurney for the very grave cases, or those that were weird like undiscovered infections & parasites.

Gunnery station; based on the carrier-box, but with an autonomous weapon mount on top. This meant that the extra sensors, targeting CPU and solid munitions were in the box while only the weapon was exposed. The normal weapon on this system was a custom-built 'grenadier-howitzer' railgun that was fed one shell at a time by a jointed feeding arm attached to a rotation disc at the base of the pintle-mount. The top cover of the box slid open and the arm picked the shell necessary then pivoted to load into the open breach-block, like an actual howitzer or break-action shotgun. The caliber was 3 inches like standard police grenades, mortar rounds and small cannon shells. Alan had stocked the Command Center's munitions holds with a variety of grenades and shells for just this system, in case the worst happened. The box could hold a total of 450 canister grenades and 105 cannon shells.

With these basic building blocks, Alan had made himself a variety of workers and fighters to help him along the next phase of his life.

Bipod servant; the most basal, all humanoid robot that would accomplish household chores like cooking, cleaning, and carrying bags when out on errands. These were also the models that would serve as crew for the buildings and ships since they could use the normal consoles and chairs without prior adaptations. They were dressed in a padded armored version of the IR field suit that had the virtue of hiding their non-organic nature quite well, but in a night-blue coloration. This also gave them a belt, two bandoleers and pockets to hold tools and stuff during the jobs they were assigned.

Bipod healer; humanoid robot with a hybrid torso that allowed it to have four normal arms and two humanoid legs. This made holding down the patient and working on him at the same time possible, or doing several small jobs together to patch more wounds faster. It also made the confection of medicines much faster as the bot could work up to four recipes side-by-side. This bot was normally dressed in a white field suit with extra Kevlar weave armor to protect its delicate systems and processors, plus a med-kit in a backpack and a box of medicines attached to its chest straps. Surgical tools were in the fingers or sheaths on the thighs. These units will be stationed as first-aid responders at fixed locations, or as scientists in the ship's labs.

Bipod soldier; basal humanoid robot that is dressed in human clothes and uses ordinary weapons to defend/attack. Alan was inspired by the old 1980's GI Joe cartoon, the Cobra Battle Android Trooper. He based the robot frame & kit on a US Marine, meaning that the one basic type of person could use the kit supplied then adjust that loadout for the job in progress. Hence, a very simple all-humanoid robot that was given night-blue field suit with thick Kevlar armor padding and ceramic plates, plus weapons Alan had found in the historical archives and government databases that THI had access to. Like the Marines or Rangers, these models would have a Colt M2031b rail-pistol 9mm, a Barret Cal.50 rail-rifle with bayonet, a bandoleer of hand grenades, and a pair of tactical Spetsnaz shovels as trenching/camping tools or hand-to-hand weapons. These bots would be Alan's ordinary bodyguards when he left his protected camp to meet vendors or contacts. Besides the systems in their forearms, these units could also attach beam weapons to the hard-points on their shoulders or hips, or use their hands to wield anything else they could find to defeat the enemy.

Bipod Professor; basal humanoid robot that is dressed in a silver field suit with extra drab-grey Kevlar weave armor to protect its delicate systems. These units were dedicated command & management specialists who would deal with all the upper level problems; long term strategies, survival or combat tactics, scheduling jobs, planning procurement of goods & services to ensure the functioning of the fleet, etc… The were also the scholars in charge of communications, translations, Alan's newly created encyclopedia & statistics compendium, and updating all the fleet's maps & charts. They would most specifically keep abreast of psychology, sociology, ethnology, anthropology, religiosity, criminality, socioeconomics, and geopolitics so as to counsel Alan competently when he needed to make critical decisions. In peaceful times, they would do as their namesakes and teach the teenager just as if they were teachers in school, when the boy was sick of internet or holonet educational programs and tests. Also, they would be the boy's primary source of social interaction and intelligent conversation for a long time to come. It was because of their planned creation that Alan had pushed hard on integrating voice analysis apps and native language commands in all his robots, vehicles, household domotics, and even personal gadgets too.

Tetrapod harvester; medium-sized robots composed of mech torso & legs, with the upper limbs being manipulators and the lower limbs being claws. Covered in earth-brown field suits and flexible Kevlar weave armored padding, these units were the basic workforce for cargo, landscaping, cultivation, extracting ores from the ground, scrapping shipwrecks and damaged buildings, or disposing of waste & offal. Normally, the harvesters would pass by the tool lockers to equip for the job they had scheduled, so their basic kit was limited to what was already inside the limbs and torso, plus a crowbar, fireman's pickaxe and shovel, just in case their claws weren't enough for an unscheduled event. Each one had two covered ports in the pelvic joint, front and back, to attach transport pads, carrier-boxes or workshops, lab-carts or even gunnery stations, if it were needed by the current emergency. This meant that several harvesters could be attached to form a train to ferry a diverse load faster and safer.

Tetrapod builder; medium-sized robots composed of mech torso & legs, with the upper limbs being manipulators and the lower limbs being claws. Covered in earth-brown field suit and flexible Kevlar weave armored padding, these units were the basic workforce for assembling or crafting devices. Builders had a wire basket mounted to their back and a wide but shallow enameled metal basin attached to their lower chest, both to store tools or resources needed in their current task. One common supplemental tool often used by these units was a small hydraulic crane that attached to the back and shoulder to support heavy pieces from above with a grapple-line that has a magnetic claw and four hooks at the end. A builder could have two such cranes fully loaded and not tip-over due to having four legs thus maintaining balance and equilibrium during stationary work or transport. Each one had two covered ports in the pelvic joint, front and back, to attach transport pads, carrier-boxes or workshops, lab-carts or even gunnery stations, if it were needed by the current emergency. This meant that several builders could be attached to form a train to ferry a diverse load faster and safer.

Tetrapod corpsman; medium-sized robots composed of mech torso & legs, with the upper limbs being manipulators and the lower limbs being claws. Covered in white field suit and extra-thick Kevlar weave armored padding with a large armored framepack & chestpack combo. These units were designed to replace an IR team of two men inside one robot. They were programmed with all the Search & Rescue, forestry ranger, fireman, HAZMAT, orderly, paramedic, nurse, traumatology surgeon and pharmacy methods & sciences available. Their base kit was everything that was normally given to Scott, Virgil and Gordon during a rescue op, and much more when Alan found it necessary to be added in the package. Each one had two covered ports in the pelvic joint, front and back, to attach transport pads, carrier-boxes or lab-carts, if it were needed by the current emergency. This meant that several corpsman could be attached to form a train to ferry a crowd of patients faster and safer out of the accidented zone or combat area.

Tetrapod techie; medium-sized robots composed of mech torso & legs, with four humanoid manipulator arms. Covered in earth-brown field suit with flexible Kevlar weave armored padding, these units were the backbone of the repair, manufacturing and production capacity that Alan had made for himself. On a good day, they could make new stuff, and on a bad day they could supplement the harvesters or builders to keep the ship flying/floating as necessary. Their programming was flexible enough to let them repair conventional machinery like a car, all of IR's exclusive gear, and create new systems or devices in response to a problem, like a leak in the roof or an overstrained breaker box in an old chalet. Each one had two covered ports in the pelvic joint, front and back, to attach transport pads, carrier-boxes or workshops, lab-carts or even gunnery stations, if it were needed by the current emergency. This meant that several techies could be attached to form a train to ferry a diverse load faster and safer towards an assembly site like a drydock.

Tetrapod Shieldmate; medium-sized combat units composed of mech torso & legs, with the upper limbs being claws and the lower limbs being manipulators. They were covered in black & grey camo thickly armored padding with ceramic plates, plus a large armored framepack & chestpack combo. The upper limbs had an articulated medium tower shield permanently jointed to their forearms. Their standard fighting gear is a pair of Phonon Maser carbines with bayonet that are designed to clip to the hip joints for autonomous firing while freeing the hands for other jobs, like close-in defense. To this are added two bandoleers of hand grenades and a Cal.303 sniper rail-rifle mounted to their back with a hydraulic arm to position it over the right shoulder to fire. The rifle is fed by a 500 shell belt that the robot much change manually when it is empty. The left shoulder is occupied by an articulated arm that carries a powerful optic telescope to serve as 'spotter' during long-range shots. Each one had two covered ports in the pelvic joint, front and back, to attach transport pads, carrier-boxes or gunnery stations, if it were needed by the current emergency. This meant that several Shieldmates could be attached to form a train to convoy a heavily defended load faster and safer through contested territory.

Octopod porter; large robots composed of two permanently attached Tetrabot Builders with four mech-legs, four humanoid arms, and two folding cranes attached to their dorsal aspect on each. The porter were structurally attached to a fully powered transport pad system (with mech legs) upon which could be affixed an inert carrier-box, bucket for dry resources or cistern for fluid resources. In worse scenarios, they could ferry injured or automated weaponry mounts in specially designed pods. These were the basic light-cargo mules of the fleet, able to move 2,000 pounds (1,5 tons) of materials like a small familial pickup truck. Their combat abilities were limited to the systems in their bodies and whatever happened to be lying around at the time. Alan had however equipped them with a 'charge & trample' attack pattern similar to horse cavalry, just in case of desperate measures being needed, then made that standard for all Tetra and Octo class bots.

Octobot savant; large robots composed of two permanently attached Tetrabot Techies with four mech-legs, four humanoid arms, and two extra-long mech arms with claws attached to their shoulders from the dorsal aspect on each. The techies were structurally attached to a fully powered workshop system (with mech legs) so as to do forensics or R&D, or just craft and assemble known items as required. The savants were programmed with some of the finest know-how, methods, protocols, techniques and higher sciences that Hiram had been able to pool together during his life, and then Alan had added to it thru hacking governmental databases that gave THI access as external contractor. These bots served to analyze problems in mechanics, electronics, physics, or natural landscape, and found solutions to which they then manufactured the pieces to assemble the remedy. Benefitting of the best 'fuzzy-logics' OS and apps known to cyberneticists on Earth, these units were the engines of creation in the fleet Alan was building for himself.

Octopod savior; large robots composed of two permanently attached Tetrabot corpsman with four mech-legs, two normal humanoid arms, two mech arms with claws, and two extra-long humanoid arms with hands attached to their shoulders from the dorsal aspect on each. The corpsman were structurally attached to a fully powered lab-cart system (with mech legs) so as to do forensics or R&D, or just to heal regular injuries or diseases as required. This was the most capable medical unit that Alan had in his possession, and they could be used in either field ops, a hospital setting or biomedical laboratory for R&D of new surgeries, drugs, tools and health care protocols.

Octopod bastion; large machine composed of two Tetrabot Shieldmates with mech torso & legs, upper limbs being claws and the lower limbs being manipulators. They were attached permanently to a fully powered gunnery station (with mech legs) so as to fend off the worse threats Alan would face. Added to the grenadier-howitzer of the gunnery platform, the upper limbs had an articulated medium tower shield permanently jointed to their forearms. Their standard fighting gear was a pair of Phonon Maser shotguns with bayonet permanently fixed to the hip joints to deal with close range threats, like intercepting thrown grenades and knives or rushing enemies. Each torso also had Photon Maser long-rifles mounted to the hard-points on their shoulders for long range precision shots & slashes. Each torso carried two bandoleers of shrapnel/incendiary hand grenades, and there were EMP, flash-bang-salt grains, sedative gas, cyanide gas, white phosphorus gas, and thermite grenades in the gunnery box. They also had High-Explosive, thermobaric, ionic burst (fatal to CPU's and organics alike), and Superon incendiary cannon shells. These units were covered thoroughly in hardened black field suit and armored Kevlar weave plus ballistic ceramic plating that was attached & latched with Velcro strips, just like a medieval knight. This armor was made of several segments for ease of manufacture and covered the heads, torsos, pelvic joints, legs and carriage box, as well as a flexible hood over the gunnery mount.

Octopod Ark-of-Alan; a specialized variant of the bastion combat unit whose carrier-box held instead a mobile mainframe server with all the current OS, apps, protocols, databases and personal configurations made by Alan to his private network. The box is topped by several retractable antennae to receive or emit analog AM/FM radio & TV, digital telephony & web, satellite and Holonet, which includes an umbrella-style folding parabolic dish and solid miniaturized 'Radôme' spinning sensor. These robots were dressed in silver operations suits with drab-grey heavy armored Kevlar weave and ceramic plating. They carried Photonic long-rifles on the shoulders and Phonon shotguns at the hips. These units would serve as dedicated mobile management consoles and emergency back-up comms hubs for the fleet that Alan was building for his private usage.

Besides the pseudo-people robots he had built, Alan also designed some purpose-driven all-in-one robots that would serve him in specific circumstances.

Equiide; horse-shaped and sized robot that was programmed to act like a real horse, but built like a small tank with brown fake-fur covering. Alan had grown up on the Tracy's legacy farm in Kansas before going to McVeigh Academy from age 11 onwards. This sort of robot was both a useful tool and a small bit of emotional comfort for the boy. He made the Equiide bots very intelligent, configuring them to assist their riders in both movement and camping activities, as well as being a sentry during sleep cycle. If you didn't have a hunting dog, the horse-bot could do that for you as well. In combat the Equiide could use Photonic Masers in its eyes, a large Phonon Maser in its mouth, a stream of high temperature steam from it mouth, stomp the enemy with its sharp steel hooves or just bite with teeth fit for a chainsaw. In the shoulders of the Equiide were hidden a pair of permanent doubled grapple lines so they could entrap a victim and drag them in for a good stomping. Inside the bot's body was hidden one medium compartment for precious baggage, and you had to 'ask' the bot to open the hold or else it would fight-off the intruder. The horse's dorsal area was either hot/cold as the weather needed to give the riders a nice ride. And Alan had designed special saddles with heat regulation, massage vibrators and a pair of docking points for media devices or comms gear, because IR training and all…

Kanimecha; Alan had always wanted a dog, and now he had a pack of them. Or rather, he had built a pack of large, vicious and terrifying attack beasts shaped vaguely like Alaskan Malamutes, except they were covered in black & grey camo fake-fur with glowing red eyes all around their heads. These bots were conceived to be sentries roaming wild land around the ship when parked, or to stay in whatever vehicle or camp Alan had when traveling away from the CC for his necessities, like socializing. The teenager decided to gift these bots with 85% of Max's original character to make them playful and friendly with allies, but without the damned quirks and folly Hiram's pet displayed. The combat abilities of the Kanimecha were varied – teeth and claws for sure, but also miniaturized Photon and Phonon Masers in all the eyes, nostrils, mouth and all legs. Their tail could extend up to seven feet to whip around, causing intense stings or slashing injuries and even electrifying targets. There were permanent miniature rocket-claw grappling lines inside the mouth and both forelegs to grab and bring-in a victim to be bit, clawed or blasted up close. Hidden inside their thorax was a pair of small folding manipulator arms that could be used to open door handles, latches on boxes, or take the lid off a can of food, etc… Or they could also be used with the built-in small hacker's kit to slice into network wires then boost the signal back to Alan's control hubs, because he was a nice kid so he planned for that sort of thing.

Evil-Eye; micro-blimp the size of an American football colored night-blue, with small rotors and sensors emerging from balloon. It also had four small permanent grapple lines, and miniaturized Photon and Phonon emitters to help itself pass through accidented terrain or drill a hole into a protected building to obtain access to secured databases. On its belly was a small jointed arm with a tool that served to connect with standard network ports, or else cut into the wires to tap them for a hack.

Gutwurm; 1 foot long x 2 inches wide, silvery millipede. This drone was used specifically to roam around wilderness camps to silently watch who would approach, and to climb inside vent ducts or water & sewage pipes to enter a building or ship undetected. The Gutwurm had very limited CPU functions and data storage, so it compensated by having a good wireless relay that could live-stream what it perceived or hacked up to one full mile away, even through the armored walls of Tracy Island or Menenoa Atoll, therefore regular manufactures, stores or office towers would not stop it from reporting.

Deep inside each robotic torso was hidden a wireless network hub that could link-up with each robotic segment, vehicle or other devices, that Alan had designed in an area of 1,000 yards so as to allow the robot's CPU to have perceptions and data-streams from multiple sources in case its own head and other functions were destroyed / corrupted. In the event the CPU of a neighboring robot was destroyed, the robots that still worked could remotely control those bot parts that still had mobility.

As an added benefit, because all the robots were built from mass-produced OmniKonnekt segments, a damaged robot with a dead CPU could have its head, arms, legs and attachments removed and spread between other units in a matter of seconds to commit instant 'repairs' or field upgrades. In the worse cases, a downed unit could still move its limbs and fire weapons despite a completely blown CPU because the remote command used it like a puppet.

Interchangeable zombie-bot protocol

In essence, what it meant was that if one robot was kept safe in an armored bunker, it could all on its own ensure the continued operations of the robotic workforce, including the complex tactics that only a computer with multiple viewpoints and continuous direct links could manage, almost like omniscience and omnipotence. Since Alan had already thought of creating the Ark-of-Alan type of robots, he had decided to expand on that idea as it was proving critical.

Yes, the tech was really starting to look like a zombie plague in the making, or the Cybermen from Doctor Who, but Allie had pushed forward regardless, driven instinctively to produce the most stable, fully optimized mainframe to manage his robots from wherever he was, and whatever health he had. In fact, the teen eventually realized that he might have to use an old telephone, CB, broadcast on social medias, or other weird method to communicate with his bots to request emergency help out of a bad situation, so he had to make more than just a mainframe OS with a few apps. The Arks had to evolve.

Brainchild server & relay

This new realization made Alan decide that the best way to truly ensure his robotic workforce never stopped helping him or got genuinely destroyed was to design a dedicated computing 'brain' whose sole job would be to guarantee the survival of those robots and associated systems. In a fit of humor, he called it the 'Brainchild' since it was the result of everything Hiram and Fermat had taught him over years, and it would be the central cortex for the network of robots, vehicles and buildings he was crafting as his future.

So, at age 13 in 2033, the teenager had taken weeks to painstakingly imagine a small, portable super-computer that could be installed in either a car, ship, or building without affecting the management functions or performances. Everything had to be integrated inside a bland thermoplastic box the size of an ordinary business traveler's large wheeled suitcase so as to not attract attention from enemies, like tech thieves or customs agencies.

The machine would be based on a motherboard engraved with Velocium alloy circuitry, sockets & jacks. Power would be from an IR standard ionic battery and winding power cord for 110/220 volts. Main processing would come from four HKB-2033a-IR 64-core CISC processors paired in tandem with four AlFer-2034b-IR 256-core RISC processors. Memory would be a whopping sixty-four bars of HKB-2034-Flopperation high-speed RAM, and data storage would be twenty removable AlFer-2034 hybrid mirroring flash-drives. The compact liquid cooling plant was an IR standard for handheld power tools and well tested over the last decade, so not a design hurdle at all.

Media connectivity was ensured firstly through an IR prototype wired/wireless hub with an electrical socket type-B for hijacking power wires to transmit signals, two coaxial cable sockets type-F, eight ethernet RJ-45 jacks (cat 8e 25 Tera/s), eight USB-E powered jacks, and four fiber optics multimode MFPO jacks. Added to this impressive physical dataflow was the EWC suite based on the HBK-2031-Jack/IO transciever chipset that could run military and HAM radio frequencies, including CB & walkie-talkie. On top of this, the hub could process corded telephony signals in analog/digital from landlines, or wireless telephony directly from digital cellular and satellite sources.

As extended connection abilities for the hub, Alan had designed into the 'Brainchild' the ability to use all the vari-cams and microphones/speakers built into the robots, vehicles and buildings to communicate through uncommon means. This was done by an HBK-2032-VariPlex Optical Imagery chipset built to manage IR's Holonet transmissions, but also including 'photo-phone' and 'laser-phone' functions, plus CIA-grade applications for facial recognition, finger prints, dental patterns, retinal patterns and ear shape recognition.

In third line of the connectivity methods was an audiophonic chipset HBK-2033-Sonophile used to transmit data-streams in analog sound directly, or digitized sound signals from musical instruments or entertainment devices. The chipset used binary tonalities via old dial-up modems, or through the microphones/speakers of ancient telephones or analog stereo systems, which included having sets of jacks in micro-stereo 3,5mm (1/8"), Coaxial-RCA tri-plug, and studio stereo 6,5mm TRS (1/4"). For more up-to-date sound systems like gaming consoles, home theaters or the Public Address system inside the Command Center, digital cabling jacks for MIDI interface and Firewire IEEE-1394 were included. The audio co-processor was equipped with applications to run voice print identification, stress evaluation (lie detector), and geolocation via ambient noise identification. The apps could transmit analog sounds or even data over infra-sounds or ultra-sounds, alongside the standard communications bandwidth without human users hearing or knowing about it, as a method of usurping existing comm lines to enter secured facilities or defeat kidnappers to recover Alan if he is taken. This led the boy to integrate a sound frequency convertor/decoder to all his telephones and media recording devices to be able to send instructions to his robotics network secretly.

The server's faceplate was hidden by the suitcase covering, which had to be opened to physically access the control touchscreen, physical keypad and Holonet imager. The jacks were grouped by type under the control pad, each clearly annotated to avoid errors while plugging cables. The wireless reception antennae were built into the thickness of the suitcase cover, and allowed full reception or transmission of radio, television, telephone, network or Holonet comms over the most commonly used protocols Wi-Fi, Blue Tooth, HomePlex and Air-Cord (IR exclusive). Four specific jacks had been set apart to plug dedicated external antennae for analog AM/FM radio & TV, digital telephony & web, satellite relay, and Holonet relay, with the server supplying the power for operations through the cables used for the link-up.

Unlike all the other robots, the 'Brainchild' had to be very competent at practically everything so as to manage the daily operations of the fleet and strategize for combat. This led Alan to reluctantly increase the mainframe's individual (not shareable) intelligence, personality and character, but without any of the quirks and fuss that Max exhibited. It made for a bland interaction, but a very stable and reliable one, which was the desired outcome. As a fit of humor, Alan who happened to be quite the avowed sci-fi geek, reprogrammed his entire mainframe OS, protocols, apps, and utilities using the Borg linguistics and graphics from the old Star Trek series, from before he was born. Then he got cute by adding both cybernetic and physical locks in the form of round dials covered in old Egyptian, Sumerian, Akkadian, Hebrew and 'alien' glyphs taken from the cult series Wormhole X-Treme. It forced him to redesign his virtual and physical keyboards, control panels and door locks to have the hybrid 5-ring dial included, but the finished product was uniquely safe, and hugely fun for him to use.

Once active, the Brainchild mainframe had helped Alan with quickly designing the complex robotic frames, segments and attachments for his fleet, then secretly managed the production lines hidden deep inside Menenoa Atoll, where all the old builder-bots and resources from IR's creation lay forgotten and forsaken. Alan was at McVeigh Academy in Kansas, busy happily studying, playing sports or socializing whilst his fleet of workers and vehicles slowly built itself on automatic, with little input except for a half-hour every morning, and one or two hours each evening. Since his management interface looked like a cheap knock-off of Starcraft and others space-aged strategic games, nobody who saw it asked questions. Given he was in Advanced Placement courses for all his classes for the fourth year straight, plus serving as tutor for groups three time a week, none of the school staff or students were bothered that Allie had a quiet pastime to relieve stress in peace. It was certainly less dangerous than what Gordon used to do when he was attending McVeigh, so the teachers and principals were almost encouraging him to keep at it, instead of changing his habits for potentially much worse activities.

Operating the 'Brainchild' mainframe was willingly designed as a very basic process; wheel-in the suitcase, stabilize/lock in place and open the cover to start plugging power and all comms wires necessary, or available. Alan made sure to review his designs of robots and vehicles to make sure that each one had several jacks or plugs compatible with those on the mobile mainframe. Then he designed a few quick-fix adaptors for making old cars, homes or obsolete manufacturing machinery compatible with the new private network he was building. These small gadgets would be mass-produced and spread around THI and IR first, then slowly bleed-out through the general population as much as Allie felt the need to push on it.

After that, the teen had revised and upgraded the Ark-of-Alan octobots to make certain their cybernetics matched the capacities and functions of the Brainchild server, but on a limited local level. The back-up octobots would never have the intelligence or pseudo-personality he had allowed into the master-controller that he had kept hidden in Menenoa Atoll's loneliest, deepest levels until it was time to leave.

X - X - X - X

As he brought himself out of his long thoughtful reverie, Alan saw the specially dedicated Tetrapod 'Braintrust' who was carrying the only Brainchild case in existence into the garage deck of the Command Center, right beside him. At a small gesture, the man-sized robot stopped and presented its burden to the human for inspection.

Using the mini-Gundam's manipulators, Alan opened the suitcase cover and activated the holo-imager to get a quick rundown of internal systems and active processes, then read through the fleet overview, signing a few forms and orders with a thumbprint on the touchscreen, or vocal permission for secured actions like moving munitions and armaments. Seeing everything as it should be, Allie gestured for the precious passenger to be installed in its armored room and immediately hard-plugged into the ship's systems and bridge EWC suite through the dedicated backbone that had been added in the last few days.

It was nearly 12h00pm – noon when Alan sat in the mezzanine's command throne to order the subterranean hangar to open its hidden doors towards the surface.

In the fake abandoned US Navy base, a decrepit aviation hangar raised several feet and slid sideways on just-revealed railway tracks, just as the maintenance catwalks and ceiling cranes retracted to allow the behemoth spaceship to move.

Releasing great belches of Superon flames and fumes accompanied by four inhuman sonic booms, the powerful capital vessel emerged from the entrails of Menenoa Atoll's main island, only to immediately dive directly into the sea's clear blue waters, going all the way to the bottom in mere minutes.

As the decrepit shell of a hangar closed over the empty garage beneath, the Command Center was moving out through the lagoon's opening, heading south for about five miles, then it did a U-turn to pass outside the atoll's crown of islands, islets and needles, heading towards its destination; Alaska's innumerable western islands and shoals.

Tracy family's dark truths coming home to roost

(Thunderbirds are go 2015 – opening theme)

Tuesday 27th of June, 2034; 11:00am

Tracy Island – Tracy Villa

North-east of the Australian coastline

John Tracy stood silently in the wide-open glass sliders of the sunken main living room, dressed in the plain white skinny jeans, sky-blue button-down shirt and white sneakers that were his normal Earth-side apparel. It certainly felt good to be wearing something else than that tightly fitted IR field-suit for a change. The young adult was mentally drifting in circles, thinking darkly about the awful night they had all just spent, getting imprisoned at gunpoint in their own safety redoubt, learning about Gordon's idiotic feud against Alan & Fermat in much deeper details than ever before, and then finally having Jefferson dropping the full cost of it all on their heads.

The US Department of Justice was involved through the Federal Bureau of Investigations.

Did that mean Interpol was looking into it as well?

How many of them were targeted by this investigation? What could the consequences be for all the ill-fated siblings?

The family was lucky that Jeff had so much personal and corporate political weight in DC, or else an FBI - International fly-team would have come to their topical retreat to seize them for deportation back to the US mainland. And the charges they could face still made the tall, pale-skinned spacer reel with shock. So much shock, in fact, that he hadn't been able to sleep all night, instead shambling around the island like a zombie that was too damaged to realize he was dead yet. Or maybe he died while drunk and stoned, which would explain his mental state in the last 24 hours, cuz he sure felt like a fifth-line extra in a Rob Zombie film from the early 2000's.

"Hey, bro… You're not looking so good…" commented Virgil caringly as he came out from the main stairwell, on his way to the kitchen to fix lunch for the group of ill-fated Tracy's. Well, for those who would, or could, eat something at noon. The tall, athletic male did not actually look that good himself, even though he had actually dressed in beach clothes for a change, instead of the dark jeans and flannel shirt he usually favored.

Slowly shuffling towards the kitchen area as well, John observed his younger brother's face and gestures as he opened the fridge to peruse the foodstuffs that had all been repatriated from the bunker and put back in their proper places. It was one of the many mindless chores that John and Scott had shared last night, when the armored doors had finally opened. Dad and Virgil had tended to Gordon's panic attack and subsequent nervous breakdown, thus hijacking three men from the work to be done, and forcing everything onto the already war-weary older siblings. Ruth, as usual, had been useless and a danger to leave alone around the ovens anyways, so she'd been made to sit in the infirmary too. John's blue eyes tiredly followed Virgil, noting that even in colorful flip-flops, surf shorts and paint-stained tank-top, his entire body and demeanor screamed morosity and resignation in a way that not even finding dead corpses during a rescue had ever elicited.

"What are you thinking about?" the astronaut asked gently, wanting the answer but not an explosion aimed at himself.

Pulling frozen cod fillets and veggies from the freezer, Virgil carelessly replied in a worn-out tone "About just how much of this mess I could have avoided if I had just done my job as a brother and acted when I saw something immoral, let alone illegal, happening in the family. I dropped the ball on everything because I was emotionally wrung-out after Gordon's WASP stunt five years ago. When we learned the little bastard had faked dad's emails and signatures to fill out parental consent forms to let him be taken-in by the WASP Junior Cadet program, in prevision to accept him as GDF Navy Cadet at age 18, I kinda just flipped the entire family off and never bothered with him, or any of his shit attitude, again. Especially since dad took it all as a funny joke, instead of marching over there to lay down the law on his bare butt with his precious heirloom leather strap, like he should have."

John sat at the kitchen's island, filling a glass of cold water from the iced pitcher as he replied carefully, "I remember that period in a fuzzy way. I had just turned 18 and been accepted at NASA's Accelerated Astronaut Training. I was in the process of settling into the dorms when it all happened. I wasn't in the loop, and neither was Scott who was in a USAF fighter jet, shooting at terrorist drones trying to burn down Riyad, in Saudi Arabia, at the time. Jeff did what he always does, find the dumbest solution and apply it under the radar, then never explain the mess to anybody else, for fear that they'd see how inept he really is at all the parenting stuff. It was always mom doing anything that went right in the house, and she had to fight Ruth, Grant and Jeff at every step to make sure the place didn't implode around us. You're lucky to not remember much of those early years. There really wasn't much peace and harmony in that house, not unless Jeff was out in space or politicking for THI contracts in DC."

Drinking some water, John winced at the odd taste as it hit his dry mouth. The young astronaut really hated speaking with people, especially in person. It made his instincts rankle, and his delicate sensibilities as an evolved being were always offended by how uncouth, chaotic and dirty other humans really were, especially if they felt familiar with him or the other participants. People got pretty dumb and mannerless, when they thought they were close to you, or that you shared 'feelings' about conversation topics. Space was so much cleaner, more orderly, and above all, thoroughly empty of people that bothered him for bullshit he didn't want to have in his life.

Making a face of disgust at what he needed to do, the second-eldest poked at Virgil, careful not to trigger an angry reaction. "I can see that you'd have a reason to be angry at Gordy for that stunt. Any other 14 year old that ran away from his boarding school to enroll in a para-military getup would have been brought back forcibly and thrashed in front of the principal, or sent to a judicial reformatory, to make sure he didn't do it again. But why are you so steamed about it? You sound like it was a personal offense, more than just the overall situation?"

Virg plunked a pair of skillets on the gas hobs on low heat for now, taking a few cups of tap water to fill them halfway. After that he unwrapped the frozen fish and put the pieces in one skillet, then measured several cups of frozen vegetable medley into the other one. While the main dish was thawing out in preparation for the actual cooking, he pulled out of the fridge and pantry the necessities for making a simple lemon hollandaise sauce and a few slices of toasted bruschetta with diced minced tomatoes as topping. With all his materials in front of him, the paramedic finally answered his brother's question before he started prepping the meal.

"Gordon has been a pain in my neck for years, Jonny. Ever since he started in Delwray elementary, the same school where we all went. He's been trouble, constantly making messes, and quite a few times making me ashamed of him, grandma Ruth, grandpa Grant, dad, and the bloody family as a whole. Remember, I was 8 and you were 10 when he first came to Delwray, Scott was 12 and already at McVeigh. Gordon's very first month in primary, he got sent to the principal four times, and each offense was already bad enough to warrant a paddling, too! Grant's solution was to wallop him with a belt when he got back to the farm at the end of the day, but didn't tell Jeff. A few months later, when dad got back from work, his reaction was to just ask if the principal and his parents had 'taken care of it' then wash his hands of the whole mess. He never asked the details of what Gords had done, or why, or go to the school to meet the staffers involved about it. His entire attitude was 'He got licks for it; what else could I do?' so he let it pass. Mom was besides herself with rage that her kid could be so damn bad so young, but was pretty much outvoted and outmaneuvered because Jeff always let his parents run roughshod over her decisions. She was the poor import from England that migrated to the USA and married into the 'well off' Tracy household, not the other way around, so she was always treated like dirt by Grant and Ruth. The worse part of those events was that Jefferson, the dumb bastard, tried to put the blame on me! Him and Grant tried to convince me that as older sibling, I was responsible for Gordon's behavior so I had to get punished alongside of him. If I didn't want a spanking at home at the end of the mess, then I had to 'assume leadership like a Tracy man' or else take it in silence like a weak child when the incident report was sent home by the teachers.

John scowled nastily as he queried "I truly don't remember any of this! Where was I when this happened? Did Jeff or Grant ever hit you because of Gordon? Cuz this is the first I hear of it, and I was still in that same school when this happened. Hell, I still lived at the Tracy Farm with you, Gords and newborn baby Alan. And mom would still have been alive, too. Why didn't anybody ever say anything about this whole fuckery?"

Shrugging it off, Virgil replied absently "Yeah, you were in Delwray elementary same as Gords and me for another year yet, and lived at the farm with us, but you had prospects, according to those special fandangled tests Jeff had made you pass to see whether McVeigh was good enough for you, or you needed a different school from Scott. Dad, grandpa and grandma also felt that Scooter being away at high school meant the stuff from the little kiddies wasn't his problem till they were sharing a building again, so they didn't talk about it in the house when he was back. Gordon's messes were kept at school, at least until Alan started. Then everything was rehashed at home, mostly at Grant's or Jeff's insistence, and a lot of Gordon's dumb shit was blamed on the Sprout instead of the real instigator. At least for grade-1, after that Gords was out so they couldn't do that anymore."

Shaking his head despondently, T2's pilot resigned himself to unpack some painful history. "And to answer you, yeah, those fucktards Jeff and Grant actually did beat me for not keeping Gordon in line at school, or anywhere else we went together. Even when we were at the store with Ruth or Lucille, Grant and Jeff expected me to act like an attack dog to corral Gords as the adults presents said. If Gords acted out anyways, then I got treated as a willing accomplice getting slaps, smacks or lashes too, depending on what the little mongrel had earned for himself. On a good day, I only got a few hand slaps on the butt of my jeans, but when Jeff came back from DC in a snit he'd go all the way to whipping me with Grant's damned heirloom strap on bare ass till I was bruised and crying for help. And the moron Gordy thought it was such great fun that he wasn't alone to suffer from the dumb or dangerous pranks he did that he got to doing worse shit more often, and more dangerous stuff too, not better."

Cradling his glass, John asked sadly "How long did this last? And why did you never say anything to Scooter or me?"

Glaring at his brother nastily, Virgil countered "How were you about Gordon, during that period? How satisfied were you that somebody else was dealing with it, so you could lock yourself in your thickly insulated attic bedroom, with nobody but your telescope and HAM radio setup to talk with other fellow stargazers? Scott was at McVeigh almost all the time, but when he came home for holidays, Grant overloaded him with farm chores alongside Ruth and Lucille, or the Scout troupe outings, or school sports teams competitions, or the two AP courses he had homework for… He wasn't an option as alternate helper for us anymore. And you pretty much displayed that you didn't want to be bothered right from the start. So, to answer you; dad, grandpa and granny thrashed me for Gordon's shitty stunts till I left for secondary at McVeigh Academy, following Scott and you, no matter how much mom protested about them abusing me. Once Gords was alone in Delwray, they couldn't realistically blame me for his abhorrent school behavior. Unfortunately, the moment we were going to a family errand, the same mentally retarded rules applied again. At least till both mom and grandpa died, cuz then Ruth's reporting to dad was splotchy on bad days, and on good days it was completely forgotten, allowing me and Allie to have some breathing room."

The milky-skinned astronaut shook his head in dismay as he declared "I was never aware of this! And neither was Scott! We would have tried to stop them from abusing you like this. Gordon's faults are his own, not somebody else's! What happened when he ended up alone in elementary? Surely they had to deal with his behavior then? The school teachers couldn't just hide or silence everything anymore?"

Virg made a despondent grimace as he finished his sauce and set it aside to chill in the fridge. Turning towards John, he leaned back against the gleaming stainless-steel appliance, using it as a backrest for a few minutes as they spoke. "You, my dear sibling, are under the much-mistaken impression that the staff at Delwray Primary were silent. I can assure you they were not. If anything, they were yelling at Lucille, Grant or Ruth on the phone at least once a week, and at dad once or twice per month when they won the lottery and caught him at the farm. I even heard that they'd tracked him down at the Tracy Tower in New York, once, to scream at him about Gordon's bullshitery, not that it ever gave results worth talking about. And that's just what I saw those times that I was in the admin offices to sit on Gords while the adults made 'arrangements' to keep the inbred little defective at Delwray another week more. Each event also had at least one official notification letter sent home. I know that Lucille, and later Ruth, piled them up in the same kitchen drawer where all our school stuff was stashed. Last time I visited, grandma still put all of our recent paperwork in, like Scott's USAF medical discharge and Veterans Affairs documents, your NASA diploma, and my paramedic license certifications that I pass every year. When I got my physician-assistant license last year, she put copies of it in there too. All of Alan's documents are there, although it's mostly put into order when Ruth goes once per season, to make sure that the cleaning and landscaping crews did their jobs right."

Completely taken aback by the information he was learning, John had to wonder inside himself where had his head been at the time. Surely, he couldn't have been so blind and deaf as to ignore so much screaming, crying, child-beating and parental fighting inside of a house where he lived for a decade? Once he was boarding at McVeigh Academy, yes, then he would have been detached, but still! He should have gotten echoes of things, at least from the youngest kids themselves if the adults were too stubborn, or dishonest, to say anything.

"Why didn't you make certain Scott and I knew about all this? And why did the youngest never say anything to us? I can see that Gordy wouldn't want to get into trouble with us on top of the school and parents, but Alan should have told us…"

Shrugging his broad shoulders carelessly, the paramedic replied tartly "I think all of us overestimated how good and stable Allie's homelife was, back in the day. He survived mom's death in the avalanche but badly traumatized, what with a three-month long coma and the therapy after. Then grandpa Grant died in front of his eyes, falling down the house staircase to break his neck, when Sprout was barely five years old. Then Alan started grade-1 at Delwray when Gordy was still there for grade-6, his last year. The poor teachers were all burned-out from Squid's daily delinquencies they'd handled for six years straight. So, a lot of them took their frustrations out on defenseless Allie, even when he clearly hadn't done anything. Then Ruth and Jeff got on his case at home, never giving him any chance to explain before they punished him on top of what the school had done. There were weeks that he got two or three triple-beatings in a row, like they'd done to Gordy, but Sprout never deserved a single one of them. In fact, most of his school situations were so insignificant they could have been handled with regular detentions, like cleaning the schoolyard with the custodian, not the systematic paddlings and at-home suspensions they dished out for no reasons. The teachers practically destroyed his second grade because of that, but things settled down in third grade cuz a lot of the staffers took retirement due to old age – and Tracy Temper burn-out."

Truly worried about all this, John asked demandingly "But why are his years at McVeigh so different than his years at Delwray? Why did the two schools treat him so differently? And why did you never interfere, if you knew that dad, grandpa and grandma were punishing him without valid justification?"

"Because it was already done and passed, by the time I learned of it. I was at boarding school with you and Scott, and I had chosen to go back to the farm only for long vacations like Christmas and summer. I didn't live with those events daily anymore, only echoes once in a while. And most of what I learned about Alan came from Gordon crowing via email about how 'dumb baby Allie had gotten his dues' again. Ruth ranted about having to deal with two child criminals at the same time, all alone at her old age, every time I visited though. Nobody ever gave me a real rundown of anything till I turned 18 years old, and then that was only cuz I demanded of Ruth to know what I would be responsible for, if either of the assigned guardians got dead or sick in hospital. That's when she showed me her drawer full of stuff, and I got my first realistic look at what Gords and Allie had done, or how Sprout had been walloped by dad or grandma for no good reason for years on end. I tried to talk to him to offer help, but his answer was 'Go fly your green turtle and save the people that you really care about. I'll handle myself like I always do' and that was the last time that I broached the subject with him. He made sure to show me I wasn't welcome in his problems, or his life."

Jonny crossed his arms over his chest, firmly stating "At that point, with proof in hand like that, you should have told Scott and me. We would have intervened and protected him. Not sure what we could have done to Gordon, but we would have at least talked with him too."

The lanky spacer's answer was in the form of a nasty, bearish laugh that had many undertones of raw anger in it. Virgil walked to lean forward over the kitchen island, gripping the edges of the top in white-knuckled hands as he countered his older sibling harshly.

"Fancy you saying stuff like that, bro! Do you remember what you were doing, or events in general, three years back, when I turned 18? Cuz I distinctly remember that Gordy was finally recovered from his broken back and attending the USA Men's Swimming Finals of 2031. Scott was punted out of the Air Force because of his getting captured, tortured and almost crippled by terrorists so he was no good to them anymore. You had just come back from NASA with your diploma and a job offer for the ISSS in hand. And dear old Jeff decided to launch IR publicly right there, despite that we were all a toxic hot mess waiting to collapse on itself. In case you can't calculate a calendar, I didn't have the time to attend a technical college for my paramedic training before IR took off. And I certainly never went to Uni for engineering as I really wanted to work alongside Hiram at building stuff. NO; dad forced me to do all the bloody paramedic training during secondary school's last three years at a training center near McVeigh's campus, and taking the practicals when school let out for holidays. And woe betide my ass if I failed a single of those extra classes! You know how Jeff is about corporal punishment for 'minors' right until they pass their eighteenth birthday. He had Grant's bloody heirloom leather strap, freshly oiled to a sheen, laid out on his desk when my report cards came in by email, just in case I had dared to prove a disappointment to the Holy Tracy Name. And that happened all the time from ages 15 to 18, regardless that I was a bloody Icon of Purity compared to that defective fuckwit Gordon, the drunken stoner bum!"

"So, you see, whatever I found in Ruth's kiddy-files drawer was never allowed to matter or be put to use. It wasn't the time for it. Also, when Alan was alone in Delwray, his teachers settled down. By the middle of second grade they left him pretty much to himself, cuz they'd finally realized he was harmless, it was Gordy causing the messes all along. In fact, from grade-3 onwards, Allie was left alone by everybody so damned much that at the end of grade-6, the staffers had commented in his last report card that Sprout had become 'an invisible, lonely and isolated child without friends, hobbies or presence other than his e-tablet or a book' and that's verbatim what's written. Since he entered McVeigh as the only Tracy in attendance the year I turned 18, I just never thought he would have problems cuz Squid wasn't present to muck-up stuff then blame Allie for it. So, I didn't check the files we got to stay up to date, and Ruth never said anything good about him anyways, so I didn't listen to her rants. Becoming the pilot for T2 took a lot of getting used to for me. The ship is insanely complicated to operate, and the workload for maintenance between flights is a crazy-bad setup, too. Dad expects me to do the jobs of the pilots, the rescuers, and the bloody hangar crew all by myself. And do it 24/7, if he could manage to physically intimidate or browbeat me into compliance, as he dearly wished to, since the start of IR operations."

John took a few minutes to sip water as he unpacked and processed all that his brother had dropped on him. He silently watched as Virgil drained the simmering water from the skillets, setting the thawed fish and vegetables in different bowls, then put the cast iron skillets back on high heat with butter and olive oil to give the fish and veg a good crisp char for serving.

"Virg, Scott and I never knew that you were forced to do the paramedic courses against your will, nor how it was done. Jeff just said you got certs for the job and you were the official paramedic of the team, period, no questions allowed. We certainly never knew that you were threatened with beatings if you failed or didn't perform up to Jeff's tastes. Scooter would have blown his top, if he'd been aware of this! You were being treated like a slave by you own father, dammit all! Fuck, but I damn well want to march to Jefferson's bedroom to wake him up with his fucking strap on his back, for what he did to you!" Taking a big breath to calm himself, John added "All this bad timing does, however, explain why you were never able to intervene, despite being the best placed, and living closest to events until your move to the Island. And I have to admit that the workload dad asks of you, Gordon and Scott, with the hangars on top of rescues is beyond stupid. I know that municipal firemen are usually tasked with the station and vehicle maintenance themselves, yes, but there is a difference in size of equipment and premises, not to mention much bigger teams to cover all shifts. Jefferson's way of managing shifts and efforts is just plain incompetent, and eventually will burn you all out fast, if it hasn't already happened."

Shrugging one shoulder carelessly, the middle son grunted out tartly "Scott's PTSD from the capture three years back triggers about every four months or so. Dad's bright response is to send him off to Australia to 'Get a girl and purge it out of your system, boy! We have a humanity to save!'. I once heard him say to Scott's face that losers who get caught by the enemy are not heroes, just weaklings who can't fight to win, so he'd get no sympathy inside this house. Apparently, that's the reason why Scott was made Field Leader instead of Dispatcher up on T5. Dad didn't want a loser deciding strategies destined to failure, only somebody with a winning attitude and no excuses about it. So, he demoted Scooter from being the 'Colonel' back down to simple 'Captain' while you got promoted to 'Colonel' instead. Supposedly, I rate a simple Major along Gordon, and Allie doesn't rate at all, and never will."

Virgil lowered the heat on the hobs but kept stirring the food slowly as he expanded his answer; "Gords still has nightmares from the hydrofoil accident and being crippled, but given how that whole mess happened, I don't really feel any sympathy for him. Especially not when you take into account the dumb stunts he pulled with bringing a gaggle of drunken little bitches to Tracy Island for a 'Fuck-me-off' party, just before he left for the Swimming competitions in the USA mainland. Or the fact that at barely 15 years old he'd been caught screwing his 27 year old physio-therapist in the underground infirmary full of IR equipment, as if it were any old ordinary day on Tracy Island. And then when dad threw a fit about it, Gords blithely answered 'Hey! I paid her for that already!', and dad being the dumbass he is answered 'Oh, well! Finish up and we'll talk about operational secrecy after.' Just as if Gordon had only been too loose lipped on social media again, not as if he'd treated a therapist like a cheap whore. And when I asked the woman, she told me that Gords had threatened to tank her job if she didn't put up with what he wanted."

Jonny squinted his eyes menacingly at his nearest sibling, demanding askance "Are you telling me that Gordon already had a history of sexually motivated aggressions back when he was just 15? Why didn't you say anything to Scott or me? That's definitely something we should have known about, right when it happened!"

Giving the second oldest an 'are you dumb' look, the team's paramedic replied "Cuz dad had been there, in case you didn't hear the story. He knew, and didn't say anything other than talk to the woman in his office, with the door closed. From what I gathered when I escorted her back to her seaplane, he'd paid her three times the normal amount for the visit in cash of top of the official cheque, and written a glowing recommendation to her supervisor at the Sidney Hospital. She wanted to be gone and never deal with us again, so I let her and the problem disappear. Besides, what could either of us do, in a mess like that? Then, when Gordon came back from the competitions with four gold medals and proof his back was now certifiably healed so he would be able to join IR's fieldwork, nothing would have made Jeff change things. His incompetent planning could only be compensated by putting more people in the grinder, and he didn't want anybody he couldn't control directly, and intimately through personal connections like family ties or past links to himself from his old USAF career. Lady P is one of only a handful of people that don't fit that mold, but the reason for that is pretty obvious to see. Hiram started working at THI on a recommendation from President Harland, so he ended in IR practically by accident, but then again Jeff thought he could use his recent widowing and Fermat's vulnerability to manipulate him like he did us."

John couldn't stop the snort of amusement at the idea that anybody on Earth could ever manipulate or intimidate Hiram J. Hackenbacker into acting against his will or the best interests of his son. Jeff had to be deluded to think he could be the man to accomplish this. Going to Mars and back through the vast emptiness of space was easy, fighting-off an irate super-genius with a knack for destructive chemicals was quite another.

Worried about the result, Jonny nonetheless asked the question that was churning in his gut. "Hey, little bro…" and had to stop to smirk as Virgil gave him a look of disbelief while sizing both of them with raised eyebrows and a face of deep doubt about his older sibling's eyesight. Jonny continued anyways, knowing that if he didn't ask now, then he probably never would. "Seriously, Virgil, I need to know… All those beatings Grant, Jeff and Ruth inflicted on you when you were a kid… Do you have scars? Or lasting injuries that I need to know about? I want to help, man… I know it's late in the game, but you're just 21 years old, still plenty young to go see a doctor for treatment. Scooter and I would be there for you, at the hospital. You wouldn't be alone."

Instead of an explosion of anger, Virgil simply seemed to deflate, his entire tall frame shrinking into himself as he involuntarily displayed how resigned to the bad situation he had already become long ago. "Thanks man, I appreciate the concern, and the offer to go at the hospital with me. I know how much you hate those places, since we had to go for Alan eleven years ago. Scott's not any better either, and with his PTSD and working in high-stress, high-danger rescues you can see how his mind's not getting healed at all, but I know he'd come too. You're both good bros like that. I never doubted that, just that you weren't all that available for the small daily stuff. As for injuries… The last beating I got dates back three years, just the week before my 18th birthday. Jeff wanted me to remember who was the BOSS in the house, now that I was a legal adult and full-time IR pilot. So, in true Jeff fashion, he dragged me into his office with the door locked shut, ordered me to drop my jeans 'n boxers, lie face-down on the ugly orange couch, and take licks with Grant's freshly oiled heirloom leather strap, all 18 strokes of it. I ain't ashamed of admitting I screamed myself hoarse and sobbed my eyes out halfway through. I was welted and bruised all over my ass and thighs badly enough that I had trouble walking straight for a week, and couldn't sit right for five days despite putting on bruise creams and binging on pain pills. After six days, I gave up and asked Hiram for help, so he administered a pair of injections in my glutes, using clinical sedatives and musculature regeneratives to heal me. He estimated that I had been damaged badly enough it should have taken nearly three weeks to heal with conventional meds, if I hadn't wised-up." The tall young man lowered his head in embarrassment as he admitted "And yeah, I do have a few scars from all those whippings, whited-out lines that have faded with age and some of Hiram's treatments. Maybe seven of eight left still to heal."

John was trembling with rage, holding on to his water glass with both hands because if he let go, he'd go murder his father and grand-mother in an act of boiling-blood righteous wrath. How dare they!? Virgil was big and muscular, but one of the gentlest and kindest souls on the planet! How dare anybody think they had to beat and torment him like this to get his cooperation with anything? There would be a reckoning for this!

X - X - X - X

At the very worst moment possible, Jefferson walked into the common area from the corridor that led to the suites. Dressed in khaki pant and shirt with brown loafers, his silver hair barely combed, the old man was yawning as his bleary blue eyes scanned the area for other humans. Seeing his two sons at the kitchen island, the elderly man walked over and immediately set-off the time-bomb called John with a dumb comment.

"Dammit boy, Virgil! Can't you have coffee, bacon 'n eggs done for when people wake up? What's with this useless girl-kiddie slimming diet crap? Who wants fish for breakfast anyways? We're not all sissified fags like Gordon, fuck it all! Get some coffee done, if you value your fat ass the way it is!"

SMACK! – crash!

Jefferson never had a chance to realize where the threat came from, or that it even existed, as John unceremoniously decked him without warning of the impending Sibling Wrath falling from Thunderbird-5. The lanky astronaut showed off his athletic prowess and Tracy Temper by punching his dad across the mouth hard enough to send the old man careening down to the hard ceramic tile floor, tumbling into the dining table and two chairs along the way.

Jeff was now sporting a massive bruise on the left side of his face, and was sure at least a pair of teeth were loose. He was also sprawled on the kitchen floor, and not fully aware of how he'd gotten there. Even the impact with the furniture was kinda fuzzy, to be honest, despite not needing glasses at his age. And he hadn't even had his first scotch of the day, either! How the hard-pumping fucks did he wind up down here?

"Whaaa…?" he moaned in agony, only to be interrupted by a loud exclamation from Scott, coming out of the main staircase. The young adult was dressed in yesterday's rumpled clothes, with mussed black hair that wasn't shiny or styled at all as he hadn't taken a shower yet today. Marching over at a fast pace, the eldest brother demanded menacingly "John Glenn Evans Tracy! What in the bloody Hells are you doing!? Don't we have enough problems as it is with Gordon's shit? Can't anybody keep their damned fuckeries to themselves anymore?"

Scott and Jeff stopped moving in their tracks when they heard the deathly cold tones John used to answer, far too calm and collected for the contents of what he was revealing. "No. I won't keep it to myself. He beat Virgil black, purple and bloody. He beat him so bad that he had injuries grave enough he had to ask Hiram for help to save his leg mobility and diminish the scarring. And Grant and Ruth were in on it for years. So, man-up, older brother, and do something before I do it for both of us."

Slowly aiming hard, unyielding blue eyes at Virgil, the Field Commander of IR was able to see for himself the lowered head, hunched shoulders, and generally fearful demeanor of his middle sibling, as he practically cowered behind the kitchen island, hoping to be forgotten despite his massive size. One direct glare at John's pinched features and taut body language had him deciding a course of action inside of a single second.

"Right! John, sit on Virgil and help him. I'll handle the human refuse." Which he did by grabbing Jeff's short hair in a merciless iron grip, pulling the fearful father up to his feet, despite that he was still stunned and unbalanced by John's earlier one-hit-wonder. "You, sit on that chair and shut your face or I'll rip it off and let Squid use the shreds for fishing line bait!" he barked at his sire, not in the mood for Tracy Temper bullshit anymore. Marching angrily to the cook's desk, Scott activated the intercom to yell through the PA system "ALL damned Tracy's, Evans's and Hardale's report to the kitchen on the triple! Don't make me send the robotic dogs after you! NOW people!"

Hearing a loud fleshy smack and "Yeow!", Scott turned around to see an unrepentant John flexing his right hand while Jeff rubbed at the right side of his face, sporting a nice backhand imprint to accompany the fist shape on the other side. "He moved despite your orders." Jonny quipped, carelessly.

Scott shrugged it off, more worried about Virgil's sudden pallor and apparent shivers than whatever befell Jeff, as the old fool probably deserved it and worse. The T1 pilot knew full well what it took to make John, the least violent person I the family after Virgil, use fists to solve a mess. Thusly, he felt secure in taking sides preemptively on just Spacey's word. And if what he said was true, then Gordy wasn't the only criminal in the family to deal with.

"What's going on in this Hellish Capharnaum this time? Shrieked Ruth waspishly as she shuffled into the common area, dressed in her purple nightclothes and a horrendous fuchsia bathrobe on top. Her thick black plastic-framed glasses reflected the midday sunlight weakly as she craned her neck to scan around the room for whatever calamity had forced her grand-son to yell for an emergency meeting after the ungodly night they had lived. Maybe that waste of a delinquent Alan was back? Or was it that jail-bait wannabee Gordon again?

"Gordon, help Ruth to her chair and sit between her and Jeff for now. It's not a choice, Squiddy." Scott ordered tartly in the sort of voice he normally reserved for when the team had to triage through a bus crash with 50 critically injured passengers while having only four gurneys to transport victims to the nearest hospital. Hearing quite well the underlying threat in his eldest sibling's words, the barely dressed aquanaut delicately took hold of Ruth's left arm to guide her to sit in her assigned chair, hoping she wouldn't start slapping, clawing or punching him all over, as she was prone to do when upset by whatever got in her craw.

Gesturing at the assembled group, Scott ordered "Okay John. Unload what you told me, just after punching dad hard enough to send him to the floor with half his face wrecked. We're all interested. What was it, about him, Grant and Ruth beating Virgil bad enough to injure him for years on end?"

Stepping forward, the astronaut told his older brother "Go stand by Virg and help him while I explain what he just told me as he was making food for this bunch of undeserving, faithless back-stabbers we call family." Once he was sure that Scott was in position and well aware their middle sibling was experiencing the beginnings of a nervous breakdown of his own, John retold in detail what he had just learned about Tracy Family history, and the guilty parties implicated.

Rage, misery and fear were the central emotions for the next half hour

Scott stood with an arm around Virgil's shoulders, both of them leaning backwards against the refrigerator as Jonny unraveled the rotten tumor that had been making their entire family sick for more than eleven years, especially in the last decade. Grant's violence seemed to go a lot farther back than Alan's survival, all the way back to Jeff's own youth if the small clues in the man's body language were anything to judge by. More rot to squeeze from under the putrid scab, but another day and only if Jeff actually deserved that his sons cared about him anymore.

For his part, Jeff was livid with strongly mixed emotions, torn between glaring angrily at Virgil for tattling on their 'private things' between father & son, and looking fearfully at the other older boys. Both of them were looking murderously at him, their eyes showing he was now lower than cow-pie in their estimation. Staying silent, the old astronaut tried to imagine who he could call for help, but kept coming-up empty. He'd already burned all his favors and bridges because of Gordon's mess with McVeigh Academy and the DOJ deal, nobody would answer his calls or emails for years to come, if ever.

Gordon had shrunk into himself, trembling in fearful silence at the thought of all the hate and pain that would be coming his way now. Not only had the mother-killer Alan rebelled against his due disciplines under everybody in the family, he'd managed to make Gordon wear the hat for it. And now, all of Virgil's old shit was coming down the pipe too! Would it ever end? With all the ancient history being unpacked, nobody would so much as sneeze at the fact their 14 year old had managed to get a gun from somewhere and hijacked the adults into an improvised cell, just hours ago. No, Gordon's pranks and childish 'indiscretions' were the only thing worth bitching about, unless it was something useful to pile crap on Jeff's wrinkled, oily old hide.

Ruth was now sneering scornfully at all her grandsons, despising the weak Evans blood in all of them, and the heinous, depraved Tracy blood as well, not that anybody ever knew her opinion about that. She had always been careful to hide her true feelings about the bastard faggot Grant, his insane father Albert, the five defective sons she regretted birthing instead of aborting, and the five illegitimate, moronic grandsons that mewling cow-dropping of a fool Jeff used as screen to hide his perversions behind. And more than all others she hated Gordon for his obvious faggotry, although Alan had managed to surpass him with his criminal acts against all that was good and moral in her life. As she sat quietly, holding her venomous tongue still for the first time in sixty-three years that Jeff had been alive, the elderly woman fervently wished that the idiot males lost control enough to murder each other so she could finally have peace of mind before her death.

Silence, as dead as a moonless night on the open ocean, far from land

John glared at his three seated – relatives - as he didn't want to call them family anymore, waiting for an inkling of humanity in any of them, all the while having the deep-seated instinct that neither of them would say anything that he wanted to hear, especially if he was awake and sober to process it.

"I have a question for you, Virgil, if you're in any shape to answer me. But it's gonna be invasive and nasty. I'm sorry for that, but I think Jonny and I need to know this, in order to help you." Scott asked gently, in uncertain tones. Getting a weak shrug in response, Scott forged ahead delicately. "Okay, you told John that dad beat you bad enough to leave lasting scars, under the pretense of giving the same as Gordon when you failed to control him. Well, I have had the misfortunate pleasure of seeing Gord's ass quite a few times recently, since he's taken to midnight skinny dipping in the main pool since he turned fifteen. I can certify that he has no scars, especially from being whipped or beaten with a weapon. So, can you explain to us how both of you were punished? Maybe dad did something different and it resulted in you being hurt…?"

Virgil frowned, his voice coming out weak and rough as he reminisced aloud; "Normally, dad would yell and scold us both together, then tell one to wait outside the office door, which he closed and locked. He'd do the punishment then send that one to his chores or bedroom, depending if we were grounded too. I really have no idea how he did Gordon, only how it happened with me. When I was really little, like under eight years old, a spanking meant taking me across his knees and slapping my butt with his hand three of four dozen times then sending me off. But after age 8, he got into an argument with Grant that made him change his method, but he never explained or justified why. From that point on, I was told to drop my pants and lie face-down on the orange couch, with my arms around a cushion, and an order to keep quiet or I'd get extra lashes for making a scene, despite deserving the whipping I got. Then he took grandpa's old heirloom, a three-foot long leather strap with a wooden handle, stood above me besides the couch, and laid the lashes on my bare butt. I could see him swing overhead like he was dropping an axe on a log to split it for firewood. He normally gave me three stokes to start, then one for each crime that I had done, or not stopped Gordon from doing. I would get it worse when Ruth had been bitching about Gordy's bullshit, or when Grant insisted on being present for the beating. Sometimes, he actually told Jeff that he was being a ninny, that he was wussifying me by not hitting like he meant it. And about three different occasions, he ordered dad to start over again cuz he felt I hadn't suffered enough, cuz I would have squirmed and screamed more if I had really felt the lesson going into my ass. And there were a few times, the year before his death, that he insisted on strapping me himself, cuz he was so sure that Jeff wouldn't do it right. So, even if dad was gonna beat me when he got back from New York, DC or the Island, Grant still took me into the office to whip me himself. I couldn't say no to him because he was the grandpa, the adult in the house when Jeff wasn't present. After the second time he did it, I complained to Jeff, but all he did was respond that I was a crybaby and gramps had been right all along, so he forced me to the couch to whip me fresh, then held me down by the shoulders while Grant took a turn with the strap. I was injured, bleeding down my ass and thighs, but they kept on taking turns at me anyways, switching every dozen lashes to 'keep him interested in the lesson we're making efforts to teach him', so they said, laughing at my pain and injuries."

Scott asked in lethal tones "Gordon, how were you punished by Jeff or Grant? And don't lie or exaggerate. I'll know if you do."

The teenaged aquanaut was also frowning, because the stories grandpa and dad had told of Virgil's punishments and reactions were nothing like what he'd just heard recounted. Not knowing what it meant except that it was bad for Jeff more than him, the pilot of T4 gave his story plainly. "It was mostly like Virgil said in the beginning; either dad or grandpa would have me drop my pants and haul me over their lap to wallop my ass with their hand. When I was around the end of grade-1 at Delwray, they suddenly changed method without saying why. Now, I was made to bend over the arm of the office couch with my pants off, and they would use the leather belt dad had gotten after making colonel in the USAF. The one he's wearing all the time, like right now in fact. They never used anything else, and I was never threatened with more licks or being injured if I moved, or screamed, or reacted somehow. But it did happen plenty of times that when I got paddled at school, Ruth would beat my already sore ass with her wooden spoon, before passing me off to Grant who'd strap me one or two dozen licks. He said it was to keep my interest focused on my discipline until Jeff was back at the farm to really take me in hand like a Christian dad should. And when dad arrived, the grand-parents wrung his ear about me, so he did indeed take me to the office for another beating on top of everything I had gotten. Virgil was right about that. We did get spanked or whipped several times for each 'offense' that school or the gramps blamed us for, even when the event was weeks behind Jeff's return home. And when he did return, Grant was especially intent on 'accounting the tally' so he had a written paper pad with all the crimes he blamed us for, and the number of lashes we were supposed to have gotten for each. He used to order dad to inflict that number of licks on my bare butt, regardless of what shape or health I was in that day. Grant used to say that if I was so damned sick that I couldn't be punished, then I should be in the hospital or morgue, not in his house, wasting space and air with lies and delinquencies. Jeff agreed, and proved it each time he took his belt."

Scott was looking at both Jeff and Gordon, and not disbelieving what his younger sibling had just said. As part of their training for rescuing children out of questionable situations, all the brothers active in IR had to read several manuals about familial violence and child abuse of various sorts. And one theme common to sexual exploitation and violence was that abusers started by training (grooming) their victims from the youngest age possible, slowly upping their 'requests' from normal to unreasonable over a few years, while guiding the children towards the depraved proclivities they favored for satisfying their urges. Whether those urges were incestuous or just physically breaking the children for slave labor, the process was the same. And one part of the process was to keep different types & levels of activities with each child, often playing favorites or passing harsh sentences to offer fake mercy just on the moment of inflicting punishment, to elicit despair & gratitude from their victims. Having differential treatments also allowed situations like this, where the abuser could gaslight the victims, relatives and police officers, by making the kids' stories conflict to negate testimonies during the investigation. Often enough, a lot of people just refused to believe the poor victims if there was even the smallest hint of difference in accounts, even between adult victims like for spousal abuse or date rape.

Because of that training and what he was seeing in terms of micro-expressions on the people around him, Scott knew who he believed. And for once, Gordon was being provenly honest, whilst Virgil only lied to save the life of somebody suicidal, or during a hostage crisis, never to protect himself from the consequences of what he did in his personal life.

"Virgil, can you tell me where Jeff keeps that special strap you mentioned? Cuz, I have to tell you, I never saw it in my life, and John never mentioned having seen something like that in either the house or island. On the few occasions we got spanked, it was always with empty hands, or Ruth's wooden spoon. Alan never really talked about what was done to him either, but I know that both Grant and Jeff had it in for him in a bad way since mom died."

Shrugging despondently, the tall paramedic replied weakly "It's here, in the secret closet, in the office. The closet is behind a panel that pivots to reveal a bank of IR computers, then you put the key in the hole under the big IR logo, right under the touchscreen. Dad has a keyring with 'special keys' for hidden cubbies like that in every house or office he's had built over the decades. But the one back at the farm was actually a genuine cedar closet, made by Grant's father Albert, when he bought the land to build the farmhouse and out-buildings, nearly a century ago. The closet in the old office in Tracy Farm is where Jeff got the idea of doing this, like his grandpa and dad had done before him. They said them and their siblings had gotten the same punishments growing up that they were giving me, but I don't know if it's true. I don't know what else they kept in those places. When I was punished, Jeff was always the one that got the strap, or it was already on the desk when I walked into the office for my scolding."

Scott asked Gordon "Did you ever see that special strap Gords? You didn't mention it in your recounting."

The teenager shook his head negatively, replying "No, it was never anywhere near me, and it's the first I hear of it."

John took a sharp solid steel steak knife from the dining table settings, then pointed at Jeff with it, ordering clearly "We're all of us, together, gonna take a walk to that office right now. You're gonna empty your pockets and give us those keys willingly, or I'll fillet the clothes off you, just like you and Grant liked doing to Virg & Gords. And I might even beat you like that too, if you piss me off too much. So walk. You too, Ruth. You ain't getting outta this anymore."

Not having a choice, Jeff turned out his pockets, surrendering the contents to his second son, including a steel ring with several odd, old fashioned metal keys that were not crafted by Hiram or any of the Tracy siblings. In fact, they seemed to be handcrafted by a blacksmith, like ancient artifacts, not like modern millwork. The keys weren't identified, but there were only 8, so it would not take much time to find the right one, once the closet's hidden doorway was located.

For her part, the old woman rose from her chair first, without being helped or forced, preferring to not be touched by these bastards any more than strictly necessary. She had tolerated their existences in her life enough, they would not lay hands on her if she could avoid it. Seeing that his mother was already moving towards the office on her own power, Jefferson was left with no choice but to comply, not that Ruth refusing or making a scene would have stopped John or Scott from pushing to the bitter end.

X - X - X - X

Now relocated in the enclosed, oppressive office that was Jefferson's sanctum as much as place of business and command post for all of International Rescue's operations, Scott ordered people where to sit so he could keep control of events. "Jeff, the wingback chair by the glass sliders, Ruth the other wingback across the patio doors, and Gordon sit on the couch, nearest the sliders. Virgil, if you don't mind sitting on the couch, away from Gords. John, stay standing and lean back against the desk's front. I'll find and unlock the bloody secret closet so we can see the truth, once and for all."

As Virgil sat on the ugly old orange tweed couch that dated back to Grant Tracy's childhood, the 21 year old winced miserably as he was assaulted by the awful memories of what he'd lived on the damned thing over the last decade. First at Tracy Farm, then here when the furniture was moved permanently because Jeff wanted 'his' things in his new office. At John's worried facial expression, the young man shrugged as he explained blithely "I'm just realizing just how rarely I've used this couch, and how little of that was sitting on it or having any comfort. In fact, I don't think I can remember the last time I was in this office to be comforted, complimented on my work, or just be treated as a regular part of a normal family. That's why I'm wiggling around on my cushion weirdly, cuz I feel all sorta odds being able to sit without sore hams inside this room."

John didn't know what to reply, but was still surprised when Gordon added in hesitant words "I hear you, man. I honestly remember the color and thread patterns on the tweed cushions better than the rest of the décor in the room, given how often I was bent over the bloody thing's armrest. T'isn't like dad or Grant ever made us welcome in their offices, whichever house or company complex we were in at the time."

Scott, hearing the soft conversation between the damaged boys made his mind up that he wasn't in the mood to dick around for a bloody closet of horrors when he could simply be told right away. Walking behind the desk, he rifled through the drawers to find a set of white plastic tags and red ballpoint pen to properly name the keys once, and be done with it. "Dad!" he called tartly as he snapped the weak steel ring apart, separating the keys and affixing a tag to each. "You're gonna tell me which key goes where, and how to find the door, or I'll hold you down while John beats it out of you. In fact, I think I'll let Virg and Gords help too."

Again, faced with violence that he could not avoid or deflect, Jefferson sighed despondently and began to explain each key.

1- Tracy Farmstead (Kansas) cedar closet hidden in the owner's office behind cherrywood dry buffet-bar.

2- THI Tower (Kansas city, Kansas) metal alcove hidden behind a swivel panel of IR computers in the owner's office.

3- THI Tower (New York city) cedar-lined metal closet hidden in the office of the familial penthouse, behind wet-bar.

4- Tracy Brownstone (Washington DC) cedar-lined metal closet hidden in the purpose-built office, behind wet-bar.

5- Menenoa Atoll (IR zone) cedar-lined metal closet hidden in the office of the familial habitat, behind swiveling computer.

6- Tracy Island Villa (IR base), cedar-lined metal closet hidden in the office, behind swiveling IR computer.

7- Rancho de la Grossa Roca (Missouri) property of Lucille Evans, alcove hidden in the bedroom claimed by Jeff as office.

8- IR Command Center (spaceship) steel alcove lined with felt hidden behind the wet bar in the General's private office.

With all keys tagged, Scott triggered the IR switch-over then marched towards the impending doom that waited for its revelation to blow-up in their faces, after years of being invisible. The young adult easily located the proper computer bank and the logo beneath the touchscreen popped open without effort, leaving the keyhole inside free to be used. Inserting the key, the ex-airman pivoted rightwards and everybody heard the three thick deadbolts trigger hard, and the spring-loaded door panel opened immediately, as the mechanism that held it shut also made sure to prevent it from getting stuck closed.

Pulling the door opened all the way until it blocked opened at 90 degrees, Scott moved aside and called his siblings to come see inside. He could see well enough given the automated lighting, but wasn't sure that he could explain well enough given the tumultuous emotions inside of him at the time.

The four brothers stood in the doorway, taking in the dark red velvet covers, nailed in place with brass studs, that draped the cedar-lined closets' entire interior. Inside were only a waist-high cedar cabinet closed by two wooden panels, and two upper shelves upon which were stored odd items. The upper shelf had an old Polaroid film-only camera from the late 1970's, and an ancient video camera that needed a full-sized Beta tape to record. The tripod for the devices was folded and pushed against the back of the shelf, behind the cameras and packets of unopened film and tape cassettes. The lower shelf had two IR standard med-kits, one for basic first-aid and one for extended trauma support while waiting for transport to a hospital.

On the cabinet's tabletop was an ancient leather-bound bible with the name 'TRACY' in faded, flaked gold leaf embossing, and some holders for candles, incense, an old brass oil lamp, and what looked like a golden chalice studded with gems. Closer inspection showed the metal cup to be much lighter than it should be, thus cheap aluminum plated with fake gold and glass inserts. The most obviously offensive items in the closet were the ornate semi-automatic pistol and massive strap, set on wooden presenters to be displayed like trophies or holy relics. The pistol was an old WW-II Colt Army 1911 patent 9mm but with engraved silver-plated frame and genuine sculpted ivory grips. The strap was exactly what Virgil had said, but also worse; it was a piece of stallion leather four inches wide and three feet long, with an eight inch wooden handle & crossguard, all sculpted from a single piece of mahogany, with a brass ring through the pommel. The surface of the leather had been worked with hot tools to emboss religious drawings and words to glorify Christ and the Tracy family heritage, with 'Remember April 1865' inscribed near the guard. Placed innocuously by the strap's despicable display was a retail glass bottle of 'mink oil' normally used to clean and preserve luxury fur coats, or leather driving gloves like those Jeff and Scott normally wore for long treks on the road. In this case, the expensive oil was used to keep the strap fresh and pliable, instead of dried-out and falling apart as most leather this age would do.

But the worse, most offensive display was the old paper photographs, some Polaroid stills and some video film print-outs, that had been hung to the internal face of the closet's door, on a corkboard panel. Each picture was of Virgil, Gordon or Alan, between ages 4 and 18, placed in three separated columns with the youngest ages at the top and going down as the boys aged.

All the pictures showed the boys partially nude from the waist down, in a position of submission on/over the couch, with their buttocks presented for torment with a weapon, as evidenced by the obvious red, purple and black welts that were the focus of each image. A closer look by John led to the discovery that Alan's earliest picture was just after his fourth birthday, as proven by a colored Star Wars T-shirt that had been a gift from a close friend at the daycare he was placed so Grant and Ruth didn't have to deal with him all day in the empty farmhouse.

In some of the oldest pictures, Grant Tracy could be seen standing over some child's left side, the massive strap flung over his shoulder like a soldier carrying a rifle, and his left hand clutching the swollen crotch of his trousers in evident sexual satisfaction at the pain, injuries and humiliation that he had just inflicted upon the prone boy depicted. In the more recent pictures, the executioner was Jefferson and it was clear by the angles of the images that a camera was hidden in the ceiling, focused downwards on the couch's left armrest so as to have a direct view of the punished child's exposed body.

All four sons retreated to safety behind the massive mahogany desk, huddling together in a way that seemed to indicate that, for now at least, Gordon's feud and crimes against Alan were set aside in favor of dealing with the imminent threat inside their shared household. John left the short conclave to stand in front of their grand-mother, anger and contempt warring for place on his features as he tried to settle himself into a more controlled demeanor for what needed to happen next.

"Okay, grandma. We can all see that you don't look one bit surprised by the content of that closet, so spill it. Since when did it start, and how long was Grant a pervert who pined incestuously after his own grand-kids?"

A shallow, breathy huff of disdainful contempt left the old woman, as she locked eyes with the second oldest son, not afraid of him, since she'd seen far worse lying in bed besides her, every night for six and a half decades of her miserable life. Making a nasty smirk of pleased vengefulness, the involuntary grand-parent challenged the boys as one. "You can't handle the truth. Not a single one of the weak-blooded, born-defective bunch of you's. Just like Grant, or his father Albert, or the ancestors before them, all criminals and menial, sissified, faggoted queers, the lot of them!"

John clenched his fists reflexively as he tried to stay composed, asking crisply "What do you mean, sissified queers? And how far back does it all go?"

Shrugging carelessly, Ruth countered easily "I don't rightly know how far back, but I heard from Albert's own mouth as he lay dying from shameful diseases, about the 'private fatherly things' that were the Tracy traditions. Ha! As if what him and his bastard spawn had done to me was any better! What they did to boys was just as bad, but not any worse that what the girls endured. Well, most of the time, what they did to girls at least happened when we were drugged out of our brains, and we weren't injured, just pregnant. You boys, well, you're bigger, more bulky, can take more strain, and you can't get preggers, no matter how hard the old pervert would have tried to shove his 'power under Christ' inside of you's."

John passed a weary, trembling hand down his pale face, trying again to hold his boiling temper under wraps for now. He was needed with a clear head to manage events, he could lose himself to his righteous wrath later, when all facts were out in the open.

"Okay, granny. Stop talking in circles and be clear. Are you saying that at least Albert and Grant beat boys for fun, but raped girls specifically to get them pregnant? To what goal? A pregnant woman isn't sick or crippled or useless, so why?"

Leaning backwards into the comfortable wingback chair, Ruth shrugged one shoulder inelegantly, answering "You live too much in 2034, Jonny. You think like a bloody Woke millennial who was born in a weak-willed country of ninnies and faggots, never confronted with hate, pain or Power Penultimate. I'm 77 years old. Now, Jeff is my oldest son and he's sixty-three years old. You're the math whizz in the house; do the calculus yourself. How old was I when I gave him birth?"

Paling even worse, John replied softly "You should have been between 14 and 16 years old, at the oldest, otherwise you would be passed 80 already. But that was the 1950's, the Post-War Era that gave us the Baby-Boomers generation across the planet, and they spawned Gen-X after them. Even back then, it shouldn't have been acceptable socially to get a very young teenaged girl to be pregnant without some sort of uproar…"

Snarling cruelly, Ruth exploded "You dumb, blind, limited FOOLS! All that Tracy swill in your veins, cut with that even worse nameless detritus called Evans! This is the result! Imbeciles who refuse to deal with reality, especially when they didn't live through it themselves! Bunch of Woke judgmental morons, so satisfied you THINK you know what the world should be, all the while willingly and blindly ignoring how it really is! You were born in the USA, in Kansas, in a SOUTHERN state, as red and faithful as any Christian State can be, and you still don't understand the POWER of a priest over a village! Dumb cunt, just like your menfolk and that unstable bitch Lucille! All trash, all of you's!"

Squatting in front of his grand-mother, John moved a hand in a 'gimmee' gesture, inviting her to speak her peace at last, so that they could deal with that as well. Crossing her arms defensively over her heaving chest, Ruth Hardale glared at all and sundry around the office, reserving her worse contempt for her misbegotten spawn, that duplicitous, defective pervert Jefferson.

"You forget all too easily the history of your forebears, John Glenn Evans Hardale Tracy. Jefferson's grand-father Albert Tracy was an evangelical priest, ruling over the district's little church like a feudal Father Abbot over the serfs and slave-spawns. His ancestors had started that church at the founding of Kansas, in the early 1800's, and supported segregation, slavery, Secession from the Federal Union, and fought against rights for anybody not themselves. And Albert Tracy, born in 1924, was far more at ease holding a Winchester rifle and a bullwhip as he rode his horse around the farmstead, than he was with electricity, radios, telephones, or automobiles. He was a traditionalist who believed firmly in Citadel America to repel migrants and the unclean non-whites, and Christian Dominionism up to the extermination of infidels or worshippers of false gods. His hate of Jews for murdering Jesus knew no bounds, even in public during his sermons. At home, he invoked the 'Gospels of the Iron Rod' to justify waving a gun in his kin's faces, and 'Rod Sacraments' to preach the beating of children and women to make them docile to Jesus' will and Great Plan. The reality of what he hid behind what society called his 'polite façade' was a much different, and worse, thing."

Taking a deep breath, Ruth began to unpack the family history that Jeff knew, and lived to some degree, but had tried to bury and make disappear so that he wouldn't lose control over his sons, as he feared that the US policing authorities would find out.

"You see, Albert was born in a period where women had no rights except being pretty on their husband's arm at public events, and children existed under the adage 'Be seen at daddy's will, but never heard, ever' just as all of society did. So, when he realized that he wasn't all that able to function as a man with women, the same way his ancestors were queerly afflicted, he used the old family method of establishing a deal with a neighboring family to buy a bride, and force her to get pregnant. This was to hide from the congregation that their priest was in truth a faggot, a gay he-slut who fucked men or boys, but couldn't even get-it-up for a woman, let alone get inside her for the husbandly duties. So, he bought a young girl, married her and promptly beat her to submission, then engrossed her repeatedly with nine babes, only three of which survived to age five. And it wasn't disease or starvation due to poverty that did them in, nor storms or wild animals either. Albert beat his child-wife so often that he caused two miscarriages and also killed four of the babies for various reasons, but mostly cuz they cried so much it made him lose control. The foul man had a vicious temper and heavy hands when he was drunk on whiskey or gin, but he actually enjoyed his cruelty when he was sober. Thankfully, that happened only on Sunday mornings or high holidays, so his sermons could be head clearly by the crowd. At home, he had been a habitual, yet functional, drunkard who also smoked tobacco or hemp freely, even with the babes in the crib besides him as he wrote down his church budget or new sermons to come."

Giving an evil smile that reminded everyone of a nefarious, crook-toothed old witch in a Disney film, Ruth continued, going inexorably towards what the siblings could all foretell would be a calamity for their family's future survival. "Now, having gotten a few kids off his purchased girl, only 13 the first time she birthed so she was preggers at 12, he took to 'educating' his only son in the ways of Christian manliness, as per his skewed views of it. And that meant using the antiquated leather strap that had belonged to his own grand-father George Nirion Tracy, long-dead headmaster of a parochial evangelical school that taught children ages 5 to 18, before the state of Kansas created its first public schools. According to the tales Albert told Grant, every male forebear since George had been queer and pederastic, preferring very young men, and preferably boys not yet out of puberty, to assuage their loneliness and organic needs. As gays could be exorcised, jailed or even executed at the request of their fathers or grand-fathers, or by denunciation from anybody given to a magistrate who held Bench-of-Justice for the government, most queers of the day couldn't just walk into the local brothel to get relief. No, they were limited to 'captive' victims, like their own children, indentured servants, the spawns of slaves, or like George, the kids in his school. So, Albert forcibly shaped Grant into another inbred monster of the defective Tracy blood, 'sharing' his prurient desires with him so often and consistently that the child became a shade of his sire."

Scott asked in a dead voice "Is Jefferson from Grant or another man? And were you willing, at the time?"

Shaking her head negatively, Ruth snarled "No, I bloody well wasn't willing! And no, Grant isn't the pig that engrossed me, since he couldn't get-it-up for anything older than 11 years old, and preferably with their balls still not dropped out, or else he felt like he was doing it with another guy, back at the navy base. My father, Hubert Hardale, was just as much of a dry-rage drunk as Albert, and assistant preacher of the same church. In exchange for taking over the church since Grant didn't have a religious bone in him and he wanted to be a farmer, after returning from five years in the US Navy. My dad, Hubert, bartered our ancestral Hardale Grove and my hand in marriage at age 13, receiving the public blessings of Albert as he signed over the church buildings and land in ceremony, during Sunday mass. I was exchanged like a cow at market, without any say in the proceedings, cuz that was Kansas, back in the 1960's. Be cute and silent, have dinner ready and the kids orderly, or it wouldn't be just the brats getting whacked around that night. So, I went to be a 'display bride' to cover the weakling queer's faggotry, getting preggers by our shared third-degree cousin, Stoddard Tracy Hardale, who was paid for the job like Grant was renting a stallion to stud a mare. All of my five sons had Tracy blood in them, but more Hardale besides because of that unholy arrangement of priests and criminals, under the guise of blessings and continuing to build Jesus' army of True and Pure soldiers of Faith for yet another generation."

John had to push himself backwards, away from the elderly woman so he could sit on the carpeted floor with his back against the front panel of the heavy wooden desk, as he felt the world spin around his clouded vision. Virgil and Gordon looked about to puke, while Scott's face was more closed-off than any other time his brothers had ever seen. Jefferson was paler than John, and seemed to have a palsy in his left hand, but kept quiet, knowing that worse was coming.

Ruth stood from her chair to go for the wet-bar, to fix herself a strong gin-tonic with some powdered agave brown sugar and lemon pulp, an odd mixture that helped her find peace, when she wanted to sleep without dreaming about the cesspit that was her life. Once she was seated with her boozy yellow drink, Ruth took a long pull of her glass and continued where she had left off.

"So, what you call today Tracy Farm was truly the old Hardale Grove, just so you're all sure. I never left the prison of my childhood, just switched jailor. Grant forced me to procreate in order to deflect attention from his 'leisure activities' that happened in the farm's old, decrepit woodshed, or the church's basement, when 'community discipline' had to be applied to young boys from the village, in order to keep them from straying out of God's Gracious Light. If they felt a boy was about to tattle on them, they told his parents and teachers that they suspected demonic influence, or maybe witchcraft, and an exorcism was needed. An exorcism that involved violent beatings, marking with burning irons, forcing hallucinatory mixtures down the child's throat while saying it's medicine, then pointing at the hallucinations and spasms as proof of possession. Once the boy's reputation was destroyed for life, Grant and Hubert, in cahoots with the local judge who was a faggot and pederast as well, signed a court writ to have the child forcibly put into the US Navy, to send them far away so their words couldn't turn the village against the Tracy's or Hardale's."

Ruth paused for a sip of alcohol, the added as an afterthought "When the US Supreme Court forbade deportation to the military services as a disciplinary alternative to jail for juveniles in 1969, my felonious dad let go of the failing church altogether. With many geriatric diseases, emerging senility, and almost empty pews year-long, it all made that sect a worthless endeavor to pursue, now that it couldn't hide his sins anymore. Albert, and Grant too, were obliged to curtail their depravities, falling back on the children in our house to satisfy their baser urges. And again, Albert guided Grant into educating, testing and molding the five boys until they could find the 'successor' that would hold them safe in their old age and illness."

Glaring at Jeff, Ruth declared venomously "How I loathed you's, all five of you's! I didn't want a single one of your brood, you miserable spawns of lecherous he-whores! And yet, I was saddled with you all. I was a true Christian, so I couldn't visit the village midwife for a tincture that would purge my belly, or kill you once you were in my arms. I let you live, fed you, clothed you, and tried to raise you right, despite what Grant and his bastard sire did. And still, four of you died from police gunshots, after botching ill-fated navy careers. Only you, Jeff, went to the Air Force and actually made something of yourself. Unfortunately, you're also the worse of the five, and the one that should truly have died to save humanity from another generation of Tracy's and Hardale's polluting the planet. Albert had spotted you young, how you never feared the strap on your skin, or how you often invented small offences so that you would have the right to spank your younger siblings yourself, threatening to tell your dad and grandpa if they didn't submit to you right there. You were barely 9 years old and already a waste of skin, a defective little queer faggot who preferred the wee-wee of boys to the quim of girls. Is it any surprise what happened to your family? Is it any surprise that your children are all so violent, unstable and childish, despite having passed age 18? And Alan, that mongrel, takes the cake on so many levels that it makes me sick to see him breathe the same air as me."

"What happened with our family?" queried Scott from his place besides Jeff's chair, arms crossed loosely as he stood ready to fight the old man to keep him seated until everything was revealed at long last.

Ruth shrugged inelegantly again, then drained her gin-tonic before answering. She dumped the soiled, empty crystal stem-glass at her feet, uncaring of mess or danger that loitering glassware did. "Jeff was really like Grant, despite that it was actually our cousin that sired him inside of me. He was a faggoted little weakling, always mewling for Grant's or Albert's favors, and learned to play their favorite games with other children before he was finished primary school at the recently opened Delwray elementary. By the end of secondary school, he was an accomplished pederast, as could testify his four younger brothers, if they hadn't all chickened-out and committed suicide-by-cops. Hubert and Albert died, sickly, senile and no longer able to control their bodies, an act of Divine justice if ever there was one. They died the same year, despite the six years separating them, with Albert being senior."

Sighing in deep melancholy, Ruth looked down into her wrinkled, callused and scarred palms, trying to find -something- that was clearly not forthcoming. "After Albert died, Grant was the Man of the House, the Power we all obeyed. He took up the threats that his father had used, threatening to maim or kill me if I disobeyed him about how he would set-up Jefferson for life, the way his own dad had done. You were all told that Lucille Evans was just an ordinary British woman who had the bad luck to be orphaned at age 5, then being raised by grand-parents that were cold and distant, uncaring and unloving towards her, thus explaining that she had no contacts, except to receive a small monetary heritage when they died in a car crash due to English fog. And that is how she was supposed to own the Rancho de la Grossa Rocca in Missouri, bequeathed in the estate of her parents at their deaths, but held in trust until she was 21 years old. And that neatly explained her trip to the USA, and her decision to stay away from her grand-parents, to study for her diplomas in the US since she had the ranch all-paid and livable. And then, there was that fateful accident at the shopping mall, where Jeff and her ran into each other and -BANG!- love at first sight, with a quicky marriage. What a crock of bullshit!"

Silence ruled for a few minutes before the geriatric female continued, her rheumy blue eyes staring into infinity as she spoke mechanically, no longer fully attached to the reality she was retelling. In her fugue state, Ruth was actually scarier, and incited far more disgust for the story than if she had been a raging wreck. As it were, all her grand-sons could see how empty and void of life she truly was.

"The story you were all told about Lucille Evans is a miasma of cold shyte, as the brits would say. She wasn't an orphan so much as a whore-spawn left nameless, on the doorstep of a church-run orphanage, in the back-woods of Wales. There was no identifying papers or items, and no birthmarks either. Back then in the late 1980's, DNA was a budding science, something used only in very important criminal court cases or a child missing from a very rich family that could afford to pay for the work. Grant, in a manner that I was never told the details of, arranged for a 'mail-order-bride' for his only valuable son, who was no longer a spring chicken at that time. Jeff, in his forties, was given the nubile young 18 year old Lucille and she was pregnant less than two years after, and had no choice in the matter. Between being threatened by Jeff who said he could have her visa revoked so she'd get deported, and Grant who simply said she'd disappear in the Kansas forests, kidnapped for ransom if she disobeyed him… Well, you can see that the girl didn't have much of a chance to decide her fate. Again, a second-degree cousin of both Tracy's and Hardale's was put to contribution so that the 'display bride' could be suitably preggers to satisfy the community's need for heterosexual conformity, spawning Jeff a gaggle of little errors of Nature that were just as illegitimate as him, Grant, and their brethren had been."

Sneering in full-blown contempt at the siblings, she challenged them, querying aloud "Have you supposed geniuses and heroes of humanity never realized that you were bastards? There are no blonds amongst either Tracy's or Hardale's unless they married into the bloodlines, but none of the men in the direct lineages ever reproduced by themselves, it was always the cousins. And your supposed saintly mother was naturally brown-haired. So how can there be two blonds and one red-head, when those hair colors must be passed down from immediate biological donor? Didn't you all learn basic genetics and heritage in that fancy McVeigh Academy? Bunch of weak blooded, born-defective spawns of he-sluts, the lot of y'all! You had the clues of your father and mother's reality in front of you, and the much-vaunted geniuses of International Rescue were all blinder than rocks painted black with tar!"

Gordon asked faintly "Are you saying that mom did three different guys, to have all of us? Cuz two black hairs, two blond hairs and one red hair looks like at least three guys to me."

Smiling crookedly in sheer malevolence at her grand-son, Ruth confirmed clearly "Yes! She was obliged by Grant and Jeff to lay with three different cousins of ours, since the stupid, moronic Tracy males couldn't really plan anything to save their lives. In fact, if it weren't for the people inside the NASA head office, Jeff wouldn't have gone to Mars, cuz he would never have made it back from the moon base, given how inept and limited his mind is, when he has to handle things himself. Years of being cossetted and handheld by Grant who dealt with all the difficult decisions in the house meant that Jeff was pretty much a daddy's boy who never did anything without papa's prior approval. When Grant became sickly, Jeff started to show just how unsuited for life in general he was. Why do you think he built Tracy Island? It was primarily to remove himself from society so that people didn't comment about his lacking social skills or weird beliefs harking back to the dark ages of the Inquisition. Also, it served to surreptitiously corral y'all into a prison that you would never realize was a prison, cuz you'd choose it willingly, in the name of IR and saving as many lives as possible. And after that avalanche killed Lucille, how could you not follow what he ordered about running IR as a family-only secret organization? Just like a secret Christian sect, suffering under communist pogroms. Everything secret and hush-hush, all the time, no matter what he said, did or inflicted on any of you's, or the isolation and injuries that resulted."

"IR has no value," stated Virgil in a sickly voice. "You're saying that IR, and the work we do, has NO VALUE except as a screen for Jeff to hide his crimes behind. That it exists only to keep us too occupied and tired to have the time or energy to wonder about our damaged lives?"

Ruth nodded like a demented bobble-head doll, exclaiming "You got it, boy! That's exactly it! You fools bought the crap about being able to save all of humanity from natural catastrophes or accidents, just the three of you's, while Jeff sat in his office with a scotch and cigar, and John was marooned in space, too far to know what happened to whom. Tell me, how many people normally run a firehouse? Or an ambulance station? Or a police station? Did you really buy that only three boys with a gaggle of souped-up machines could SAVE THE WORLD? Hubris driven, ill-aborted, born-defective TRACY trash, the lot of y'all!"

Stunned into a stupor by the old woman's loud proclamation, the siblings remained silent as she stood unsteadily and walked away, not telling anybody where she was going, or why. Minutes later, the four sons indicated to their father that they were done with him for the moment, so he would be relocated downstairs, in the quarantine compartment that handled HAZMAT cases that happened on the island. It would be his cellblock for the duration of however long it took them to decide what came next.

Alan's otherworldly encounter

(Stargate SG-1– opening theme)

Tuesday 27th of June, 2034; 17:27pm

Sunken Ha'tak of Anubis

Pacific ocean, due-South of Alaska's Aleutian (West) Islands

International Rescue's massive Command Center was swimming along silently as any top-notch war submersible could in this day & age, cruising underwater at nearly 100 miles per hour. Alan had started the trip with a short 30 minutes submerged to pass around the Menenoa Atoll to disperse his trail, then ascended to the high atmosphere to pass almost ¾ of the flight plan at the ship's impressive Mach 8, until they had reached a point some 500 miles below Alaska's Aleutian Islands, Western section. Given that his final destination was a small, forlorn fishing town on one of the wind-blown islands, he ordered the ship to descend until it dove beneath the waves for the final approach.

The CC was now cruising placidly at a slow-poke 100mph, some 8,000 feet under the surface when the sensors began to beep an alarm that could indicate only one thing. The computers had detected and analyzed a sunken ship's wreckage in the vicinity of their path. Given his past life of being steeped in the doctrine of IR that you always give help to those in need, coupled with the Tracy's innate curiosity for all things machinery, the teenager made an almost automatic decision, out of reflex more than thought.

Addressing the bipedal robots on the floor beneath the control mezzanine, Alan demanded "Sensors! Where is that mass located, and is it identified yet?"

The robot's truly advanced AI, despite being devoid of personality or character, could understand native language & idioms as well as Hiram's house-pet robot MAX could. Therefore, it took only a single second to interpret the orders, type on the console to get better information and respond verbally to the Creator.

"Servant-3 reporting from sensors. Massive unnatural shape composed of metal alloy, with unknown radiant isotopic signature, has been detected, at 2,857 meters to our right side, approximate depth of 11,440 feet. There appears to be an impact crater in the sea floor in the zone, approximately 3,000 meters wide by 70 meters deep. The metal shape appears geometrically akin to a three-sided pyramid held within a complex tetrahedral trellis, perhaps a base or pedestal, with two large projecting arms on each side. The overall dimensions of the metal mass are approximated to; height 315 meters, length 750 meters, width 650 meters. End of report concerning the anomaly detected."

Alan called-up the sensor readings on his console, looking at the images produced by sonar, radar, lidar, thermal and radiological devices, some of which the US Space Force still didn't possess, and could only dream of acquiring this century. One of the things the teenager could see was that the mass did seem to be composed of two pieces, a fully formed three-sided pyramid with a framework of thick girders, braces, and a pair of structural arms projecting outwards from each of the three sides of the base. It gave the mass an almost artistic quality, especially when the computer rendered the shape as line-drawing, showing just how exactly geometrical and symmetrical the tetrahedrane shape was. The odd detail was that the entire shape was lodged into the sea floor, canted at an angle that gave the adolescent a weird vibe down his spine. In all the preliminary training he did for IR, an inclined mass like this came from only three methods; an artist made it inclined from the start, an accident caused an existing structure to shift and lean like the Tower of Pisa, or else a vehicle dropped to the ground, imbedding into the soil at an angle.

And there was a wok-shaped depression in the sea floor bedrock, all around the mass of metal.

Like something fell from the surface with enough force to dig a furrow through silt, corals and rocks…

Alan knew from reading the World Aquatics & Submersibles Patrol (WASP) training booklets that Gordon owned as result of his ill-fated jaunt as a fake-cadet that no ship made by human hands could sink with enough weight and speed to create such a crater. Even the biggest aircraft carriers put in service by America, Russia or China since the year 2000 could not sink through sea water with the speed required to generate the impact strength necessary to dent bedrock this way. On the other hand, if something the same size fell from orbit, like a comet, space ship, or orbital station… Something damaged or whose construction failed…

There were a lot of efforts from the US and China in the last 25 years to spy on each other, and the best sector of space to locate satellites was pretty much here, over the deepest sector of the virtual arc made by the chain of Aleutians Islands, Alaska's western-most border and shorelines. Either the US had tried to place a defensive array in orbit and failed, or else the Chinese had tried to place a spy rig and failed. Or maybe either had succeeded, but the opponent nation had managed to shoot them out of orbit…

In either case, the young man was curious, especially due to that unknown isotopic signature. Radiation was never a good thing, especially when it was the weird sort that didn't appear in the official lists used by THI as contractor for NASA and the other branches of US & NATO armed forces.

Speaking aloud, Alan ordered "Servant-1 pilot; aim the ship at that metallic mass, then hold us at exactly 11,250 feet depth, at 500 meters from the outer perimeter of the sea floor depression, as outlined on the maps I have transferred to your console. Servant-2 copilot; ship-wide yellow alert, foreign anomaly detected, contact imminent. Activate HAZMAT protocols, in & out!"

X - X - X - X

As the silent behemoth coasted to a stop at the proper position, floodlights were lit and the forward belly doors were opened to release a series of underwater probes to do reconnaissance around the metallic mass. The structure looked like a lopsided hillock, covered in silt, corals and drifting strands of long green-glowing sea weeds. Brainchild used the cybernetic library to identify the sea weeds by the images recorded, but the database came up blank on this species, and it didn't seem a mutation or parent to anything known on earth at present.

The six probes were sent in pairs to three jobs. One pair would orbit in circle around the top of the zone, doing area surveillance against animals or intruders, and serve as roving comms relays for the other drones. The second pair would do a detailed scan of the pyramid portion going clockwise, while the third pair would scan the odd structural base/pedestal going counter-clockwise.

As the six winged torpedoes swam circles around the undetermined mass, Alan was pacing around the command mezzanine, glaring at the monitors when he walked near enough to see the details being live-streamed back to the CC. The line-drawing being composed by the targeting computer showed that the base wrapped around the pyramid was much more solid than its scaffolding appearance suggested at first sight. In fact, there was a whole lot of horizontal and vertical space in that structure, enough to put garages, warehouses, dormitories, dining halls, weapons, engines, and lots more. The pyramid itself was a solid three-sided mass that, while enshrouded by the weird pedestal, gave the impression of being wholly independent and self-contained.

An alarm beeped, attracting Alan's attention to the newest readouts. The pair of sensors touring the pyramid had found an opening in the flat side that was aimed upwards, away from the ground and out of the Command Center's field of vision. There were small lights inside the cavity, and faint signatures of electrical systems and radiation decay. Immediately, the teenager had the area marked for later inspection, then ordered the drones to continue the external review. Nothing was going inside that mass until all open ports, energy discharges, and chemical or radiation sources had been found and analyzed to establish how dangerous this exploration could turn out.

Suddenly more alerts sounded as the lower pair of drones highlighted several openings that were partially covered by what looked like damaged, deformed cargo doors or hatches, bent askew by the impact of landing badly, now stuck in their frames. A few smaller openings were covered by louvered plates that were stained by whatever used to be vented or purged out of them, long ago. Then, a torpedo zoomed its vari-cams on a rounded shape that looked like a flat-topped dome with a pair of pipes protruding from the side.

A turret.

A gunnery turret, with the weapons barrels still attached.

Alan used his console to immediately annotate the zone for priority inspection, since weaponry would be the biggest threat in terms of munitions, chemicals, radiation or booby-traps that were primed to go off. Only an engine block would be more dangerous, and if this was an actual ship as it was starting to be certain, then they would find one of those soon enough.

Minutes later, the upper drones had begun circling the portion of the pyramid inside the scaffold-like framework and were finding openings with flaps or hatches askew in their frames, and what seemed to be smaller turrets with one or two barrels, most of which were twisted or melted. In fact, as Alan peered closely at some of the openings, they looked like windows with armored panels that had been closed to protect the viewports, but failed when -something- happened to sink the mass to this depth. Given the swathes of heat-deformed material he could see on the sensor readouts, the young man was willing to bet that one huge, or several small, explosions just outside the thing had been the cause of its loss under the waves. The cold waters interacting badly with electricity or fuel and the abyssal pressure had done the rest of the terminal damages.

After another half-hour, the four drones had done their external tours and were programmed to start close-ups of the interesting portions of the mass. Alan now sat in his chair with a coffee and sandwich to fill himself until he could prepare a full dinner, later in the evening. This discovery was far too captivating to let go so soon, and he could always eat later.

The close scans showed clearly this was a massive artificial construct, about thirty floors at 12 feet (4 meters) high each, crafted from a metallic alloy that was utterly alien. The isotopic radiation was being emitted by the entire mass, coming off at different strengths according to which portion or part was scanned. It took a while, but working in tandem with Brainchild, the teen managed to eliminate the radiation interference from the readouts, making them easier to understand. It seemed that the isotope was diffused integrally throughout both the weight-bearing structures of the edifice and the smaller components, like door panels and what seemed to be pieces of infrastructures and utilities attached to the exterior of what Alan now knew to be a ship of sorts.

With all of the exterior scanned and the composite image now updated, Allie could view the holograph and see that the three-sided ship had sunk nose-first and plowed into the bedrock with tremendous force, stopping hard as both water density, pressure and soil conditions held back against the abrupt arrival. Given what he could see of the massive exhaust pipes in the pedestal framework around the lower third of the pyramid, this was indeed a rocket propelled vehicle. It remained to see if it was a new Earth airship or spaceship, or something from off-world.

Giddy with excitement, the boy programmed a pair of drones to enter the large opening on the rear face of the pyramid, now certain it was a hangar of some type. Soon, the two torpedoes entered the rectangular cavity, the cameras focusing on the small white lights that were soon proven to be electrical systems akin to emergency lights, set at regular intervals in the walls in two lines, one near the floor and another near the ceiling. The entire room was about three hundred feet deep by one hundred and fifty feet wide, with a height of fifty feet, all thick metal with a large cargo doorway at the bottom and a small person-sized door on each long side.

There was a cracked collapsed glass panel above the cargo door that the drones approached slowly, their searchlights penetrating the darkness beyond to reveal a control room with human-sized chairs and consoles, all made of the same metal as the rest of what had been discovered to date. Surprisingly, there were still a few lights blinking a low bleary glow, still powered by whatever emergency battery had survived the explosions, impact and flooded hull. The good news was that active lights meant some of the power grid and computers were in fact watertight, and might still work enough to recover data from the servers, or even pieces of tech to retro-engineer for Alan's own use.

Settling backwards in his chair, the adolescent triggered the priority channel to Brainchild, ordering "Prepare some harvesters to go out and explore that hulk of twisted metal. Everything says it's a ship, just not what type yet. I want to see the insides, and that means we need safe access points, preferably with a way to dry it out. I want you to prepare the ship's nano-forge for work, in case we need to shroud that mass, to purge the water and establish a clean atmosphere. If Hiram's technology works good enough to build a 200 rooms luxury hotel in space, it should be solid enough to build a pressurized skin with livable air bubble that covers the entire ship. My instincts tell me that's the only way to achieve the salvage plan inside of a few weeks, with only the resources and work force we have on hand. End of orders."

An electronically generated voice replied from the bridge speakers "Brainchild-1 declares; generic plan parameters received. Detailed scheduling of tasks is beginning. Salvage of undetermined ship for conversion to usable asset will be achieved. Retrieval of new technologies for upgrades to Alan-Fleet will be achieved. Message ends."

Nodding in satisfaction, the young man stood and stretched his limbs, just now realizing how much stress he was feeling from all the excitement of the passed twenty-four hours. Firstly he'd escaped his evil family, then he'd stolen a military battleship, and now he had found what seriously looked like a sunken alien ship, 12,000 feet under the Pacific Ocean. What a day! And now he was hesitant to go to the galley to make some solid food, for fear of missing an important discovery when it happened. Whelp, not like he had much choice, as his grumbling stomach imposed the decision. Taking his cell phone and laptop, he marched to the elevator, deciding that he would try out his robotic servants' cooking skills tonight. It would allow him to take a good warm shower to destress, then all he'd have to do is sit with his hot food while he read the preliminary reports from the exploration bots.

A good evening in perspective, and all without a damned Tracy in sight to screw it all bad.

Good life indeed.

Dark endings of the Forsaken House of Tracy

(Thunderbirds are go! 2015 – opening theme)

Tuesday 27th of June, 2034; 19:00pm

Tracy Island, dining room

North-east of the Australian coastline

Ruth Felicia Hardale Tracy lay calmly atop her bed, still in her purple night clothes and fuchsia bathrobe, her thick plastic glasses folded and tucked into the pocket of the worn old robe. Her dull-grey hair was all pulled into the austere bun she preferred, her eyes were closed and her skin had adopted the pallor so common to those having achieved true peace at long last.

From the soiled glass of gin and several empty prescription pills' bottles on the nightstand, John could easily divine what had happened to his grand-mother; suicide by medication overdose.

She had lived long enough to unload her foul story, and now had nothing left to live for. Hate and bile were poor substitutes for love, care and support from kind family members, which were in rare supply inside the House of Tracy.

By the pallor of the body, she had died almost immediately after leaving the group, when she had decided she had nothing left to say about the awful hidden past of her two families. Given that she was also sick and beginning the first symptoms of senility, the astronaut could understand why she had decided to not wait around. At best she would end up alone and forsaken as her oldest and most famous son was sent to jail, and at worst she would also be sentenced like Jeff would be. She had known but said nothing for sixty-three solid years, thus setting up another generation for torture, and how many more kids in the village around the farm too? There was a real chance that a judge in the USA would decide that this case would be the high-point of his career and offer Ruth as sacrificial goat to the hungry medias and masses of outraged peoples demanding 'justice' be done. John remembered what Ruth had said, about being threatened by Albert and Grant, and how Jeff never did anything to protect her, or change things when grandpa had finally died. She was as much a victim in this as the five young brothers, but her age and angry, vitriolic temper would blind many to this truth.

The milky-skinned spacer was brought out of his lugubrious contemplations by Hiram Hackenbacker's movements around the bed, as he probed the dead corpse for clues, although he was pretty sure of events as well. Though there was no suicide note, the elderly woman's state of mind left no doubts when she had left the office earlier.

Turning to face the young adult, Hiram finished packing and folding the small kit of forensic tools he always had, in case an accident happened to cause casualties. You could never stop poison, disease or radiation fast enough, if it were the cause of the mess unfolding, therefore he had the kit in his jacket at all times. He adjusted his glasses before speaking his findings.

"I would need to perform an autopsy to be sure, and you understand that I am not a pathologist therefore my conclusions would not be legally binding before a US tribunal or Congressional committee. But, I do believe that in this particular case, the evidence happens to be, in fact, truthfully self-evident. Given the absence of trauma marks, injuries, burns or else signs of struggles or defensive posture of the body… Well then, mixing and ingesting the pills from those empty bottles would indeed create a fatidic overdosage and insure death within mere minutes of swallowing." Joining his hands in front of himself in a placid, at-rest pose, the middle-aged scientist added "I would offer my sympathies, but Ruth had worn-out my last grain of good will for herself a very long time ago. However, for you and your brothers, I am saddened that this is added to your already considerable burdens."

John shrugged absently, not particularly caring anymore either. Ruth had been execrable while he was growing up, and pretty much the main reason he stayed at McVeigh's dorms over the short holidays and most weekends, like Scott, Virgil, Gordon and Alan had all done too. The woman's temper was a monstrous thing, and coupled with Grant who always had -something- to blame the boys for, going back just for two or three days wasn't worth it. Even Lucille's own formidable temper had never been enough to buffer grandma's boorish, violent tendencies towards the children under their shared roof. This de-facto separation of the family was almost inevitable, despite the fact the old farm and boarding academy were located inside the same county of Kansas, barely two hours apart by car if you drove on the interstate highway. Other McVeigh students living near the farm had always been surprised they didn't do the trip every weekend like them, never having to live with such angry, destructive conditions as the Tracy siblings suffered for decades.

Blinking to force himself back to the present, John nodded firmly towards the older man, responding "Thank you for your efforts, Hiram. I can't say that this was expected, but I also can't say that any of us will be surprised. She had lived long enough to see her felonious kinsmen's depravities exposed, so she had nothing left to do, or live for. Scott and I had envisioned she might choose suicide, but much farther in the future, when her dementia was more pronounced, or if the whole sordid mess became public in US federal court because of the warrant against Gordon. That piece of shit will be a nightmare to make disappear, even if we use the few favors Scooter and I have accumulated in the USAF and NASA. Virgil never went to the Services, and Gordon's time in WASP/GDF is another crime, and a foul ending too, so nothing usable there. Honestly, we have no idea how this will all play out, anymore."

Maintaining a studiously neutral expression, professor Hackenbacker softly replied "Due to Gordon's actions towards my twelve year old son and his own fourteen year old brother, you can understand that my opinion of Gordon has soured considerably, to the point that I will not assist him any longer. I will actively support Fermat and Alan with the authorities, and may elect to help Scott, Virgil or yourself if your requests do not conflict against my family or Alan. Otherwise, you are now all adults in your twenties, you should, by now, know how to use the Tracy Heavy Industries lawyers and resources to help yourselves."

Jonny winced at the gently delivered rebuke, having no choice but to concede that Scott's military service, and his own in NASA, meant they no longer had the right to come crying on the older man's shoulder like kids. Even Virgil, at age 21, was no longer able to ask to hide behind Hiram's lab-coat despite never having been in the armed services, NASA, GDF, WASP, or similar outfit. The siblings would have to manage everything in their lives just the four of them, at least until they recovered their wayward Sprout from whatever hole he'd found to hide in.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, the young veteran spacer gave an accepting nod, being well aware that Gordy's utterly imbecilic blunder had cost them the two most valuable helpers the family ever had, or could wish for. Bowing his head in shame, the blond male sighed despondently as he turned away to fetch his brothers to deal with the corpse.

Dinner was gonna be late tonight, again.

X - X - X - X

Jeff looked down at his mother's cold body through the thick crystal pane of the quarantine suite's viewport.

His four sons had gathered, with visible ill-will between them, to deal with the latest calamity to befall the House of Tracy.

The felonious father could easily figure out that none of them were happy, and that they wouldn't be allowing him to leave this locked suite, no matter that his mother died, that Alan was missing, or that Gordon needed to be corralled into a secluded place so that he didn't make things worse for everybody. And none of the four fools seemed to give a damn about the US-DOJ having initiated an investigation into the whole family, either.

"What has Hiram said about Ruth's cause of death?" Jefferson demanded, trying to reestablish his parental authority one step at a time, and visibly failing at even the most basic attempt.

Scott shrugged-off the question, countering tartly "Hiram said he wasn't a pathologist or medical coroner, so he wouldn't do an autopsy. Also, since his opinion wouldn't hold in court, then it would be a waste of time, and possibly damage his reputation as well as put him in trouble with legal authorities. She had five empty pill bottles and a drained glass of gin on her nightstand, but no external traces from animals, humans or distress. I, for one, accept that she killed herself. The end."

Virgil slid in a bit of character assassination against Jeff by adding sotto-voce "With the childhood and married life she had, I can't find it in me to blame her for ditching this spawn of perversity the moment she'd unpacked her story. Whatever details might be missing, I think we can get from the douchebag inside the quarantine zone, where he rightly belongs, given how toxic he is."

Both Scott and John glared mildly at their middle sibling for his gallows' humor, but didn't scold him, or deny his being right.

If anything, Scott added blandly "Whelp, he's not going anywhere, so we can ask what we want, when it's convenient to us. How's that for being taken care of, dad? You're in a permanent vacation resort; housed, fed, entertainment on screen and even the laundry will get done by housekeeping. Well, the automated robots built by Hiram will do all that. We won't waste time from our lives to visit your undeserving self, unless we have a genuine need for information only you know. And I really don't foresee a need for that any time soon."

"Good bye father," John spoke blithely as he turned around to push the gurney with Ruth's corpse to the plasma incinerator, "I do hope we never interact again, even by Holonet."

Virgil and Gordon left along with Scott, just as silent as they had stood during their visit. As the four young men departed, the lights in the tunnel outside the quarantine sector began to dim down to their cold-storage levels, as did heat and ventilation, leaving only the actual suite with Jeff inside still fully active.

The older male turned around to glare at the prison of his own design, and winced at his own stupidity. Hiram had warned him, a decade ago when the area was being built, that it was too small, too cramped, and too dependent on services shared with the other seven suites that were side-by-side with this one, or the robots moving outside that brought food, toiletries, and did the laundry in sterile conditions before passing it back through a small drawer that Jeff could barely fit his arm inside of. The entire suite was composed of a long cement tube with two bunks on the right side, a table with two chairs and wall-mounted touchscreen & holo-emitter combo for comms or entertainment, a small 8' x 8' empty zone for exercising, and then the bathroom which was a US Navy styled wet-bath taken from a submarine's floorplans.

All in all, Jeff had a concrete pipe 8 feet wide by 24 feet long and 8 feet high, for the rest of however long the boys would keep him interned. With the robots doing household chores and supplying him food, no human was needed for his survival.

But did he -want- to live that long inside a cement sewer, like a dirty mangy rat?

And how long would he last, before becoming insane from lack of social contacts, and suicide happened naturally?

X - X - X - X

"Are we keeping IR up in the air, or not?" asked Virgil as himself, Scott and Gordon walked up the main staircase towards their current residence in the Villa. "And also, if we shutter IR, are we staying on Tracy Island or moving to one of the other residences that we own? I know that Menenoa's been shuttered for years already, but it could be reactivated as full-time habitat. We'd certainly have enough space for all of us without feeling crowded when cabin fever strikes." The young paramedic ended his query by looking in frank curiosity at the eldest sibling, wondering what he had planned concerning their family's future.

Scott, for his part, was already overwhelmed by a lot of facts and decisions that he had never wanted to be responsible for, so deciding for the entire group where they lived, and if they still lived together at all to begin with, was a bit low on the list of priorities. Firstly, he had to contact DC to get fresh, honest news about Gordon's legal woes, then sort-out the teenaged bum into something passable as a functioning human being. After that, he had to make an honest attempt at finding or contacting Allie to inform him of everything that had been dumped on them in the past 24 hours. Then, at that point, he would reflect on the future of International Rescue, and finally think about his own personal life and emotional equilibrium at the end of the bloody long list.

"Sorry 'medium'-bro," Scoot quipped because nobody could call Virgil 'little' honestly anymore, "I've had my head elsewhere except on top of my shoulders of late," the airman replied absently. "Honestly, though… We have other things to prioritize before thinking of changing where or how we live. Gordon's troubles in the States' mainland have to be resolved before we move forward, or all the planning will be FUBAR right from the start. Then, IR is a big, messy burden to handle, and we're essentially running all of it just by the four of us that are left. And remember; no more Hiram to help repair broken parts or invent solutions to whatever new idiocy humanity spawned by accident. This also brings in the problem that I have no idea if Washington or the other capitals of the Allies will let us fly and operate in their countries if they find out Jeff got demoted, or the reasons it happened. We might end-up grounded or forbidden from access in a lot of places, so many that it isn't worth staying active anymore."

"So, we basically close down IR but keep the 'Birds for ourselves?" asked Gordon, surprised at the turn of events.

Snorting in contempt at his younger brother's stupidity, Virgil cut across his question tersely: "And how do you plan to pay for those toys, Gords? Thundebird-2 alone costs the budget of a small country just by lighting up the OmniVek thrusters, forget about the price of an actual flight! Making a one-way trip between here and London costs Texas' annual budget in one go! Where would you find that sort of cash without THI financing us? And without an actual IR or similar organization to legitimize your ownership of the vehicles, what do you think the governments would do? How much bitching did Jeff do every day about kissing ass to The Man in order to keep us flying and helping people? A lot of elected officials and bureaucrats see our ships, and their fundamental technologies, as weapons that are disguised to pass muster with the public, but imminent threats all the same. The cutting Photon Masers that were installed by Hiram on each of the 'Birds to help us free people from vehicular crashes or collapsed buildings could certainly cut a battleship or bunker apart. How do you plan to convince the military brass and DC suits that you're a swell kinda guy, and trustworthy too! Especially with what's hanging around your neck, nowadays?"

Gordon raised his hands in the air to signify his surrender, since he had absolutely no arguments to answer those questions, other than to admit they were pressing, and the answers were needed yesterday already.

"Okay, man! Okay! You made your point. But what about Allie-Gator in all this?" The aquanaut was asking out of curiosity, but his query was badly received by the other two siblings.

Scott grumbled harshly "I think that you've been involved in Allie's affairs too much already, Gordo. Leave it in the hands of other people. Besides, one teenager on a planet with 8 billion people won't be easy to find, not if he wants to be hidden."

Virgil added morosely "Even with all the facial recognition cameras spread around the globe, and the GDF being on the lookout, all he has to do is go to ground in a rural or wild area and he dodges all the surveillance tech. Our fallback solution of trawling social media feeds depends on John alone, since Hiram and Fermat have quit, and they wouldn't help to locate Sprout anyways."

Scott added sadly "I really don't know if we absolutely want to have Alan back here right away. After all that happened, I wonder if our family has anything left to offer him. Money he can make or access, or even hack a computer to steal it, if Fermat's to be believed, and he'd never trust us for safety and peace anymore. We burned that bridge a while back, or at least, Grant and Jeff did."

Gordon worried his lower lip, debating internally if he should mention it, then squared his shoulders in preparation for dropping another big mess on them. "Guys… I may not know where Alan is presently, but I might have a clue or two about where he went around the Island and Villa before leaving. It would work faster with John helping me, though."

Scott and Virgil glared in tandem at the younger male, matching frowns in evidence as Scooter took his phone to call John, getting confirmation that Ruth was in the plasma furnace at the same time as he asked for a meeting in the office, to utilize the International Rescue consoles. Knowing he was just better and faster at that than his brothers, the astronaut agreed, ending the short call.

X - X - X - X

John walked slowly, left hand in his jeans pocket and a freshly brewed coffee in his right hand, as it was nearing 8:00pm and no dinner in sight yet. At least three of them could cook more than MRE's or burn fish on a stick over a camp fire, so they would not starve. Which brought another worry about where the Bellegant's were, and why they hadn't called today.

Entering their father's office, the spacer saw that everything was as they had left it earlier, even the open door on the secret closet and the pile of papers on the desk. The novelty was the three men standing in front of the main console, trying to access some of the remote systems with barely any luck. Which was wrong on many levels that he could see, as it was the Menenoa Atoll sector of the IR network, and Virgil was supposed to have Admin-Access as paramedic, in case of injuries.

"Hey guys… -Slurp!- Ah, coffee! My world wouldn't be the same without it's mellow, woodsy taste."

Crossing his arms over his chest, Scott opined blandly "I hate you, little brother. I hate you with passion and vigor, for slurping that heavenly brew right under my nose, without having a mug to offer. After all I did for you over the years! The shame, John! The sheer shame of it all!"

John replied silently with an uncaring shrug and renewed slurp of his hot mug, eliciting snorts of humor from the other two, especially once Gordon reminded them all of Jeff's prized Italian Delonghi built-in drinks brewer, in the wall behind the desk. This soon had all four men standing in companiable silence as they savored their fresh drinks, needing the caffeine intake, as solid food seemed to be a good hour or more in the far future. Scott suddenly remembered something about the office, namely the mini-fridge hidden behind fake filing cabinet drawers, under the multi-function printer. He opened the cold box, only to make a face at the rather unappealing choices inside; nothing but candy bars or small cakes filled with cream. Healthy eating was obviously not a big concern for their father. Then again, this was a man that systematically had a scotch and cigar at hand within thirty minutes of waking up every morning, so no big surprises there.

Straightening-up, the young man concentrated on his coffee until half the mug was drained, then explained shortly to John what they were trying to accomplish with the remote management systems. "Gordon's ill-advised stalking of Alan may have accidentally paid-off last night. Squid programmed the entire IR network to tag and follow Allie real-time, so he thought that we might be able to see what he did, and from that figure out his escape plan."

John frowned disdainfully at his younger sibling but kept quiet, knowing that anger and recriminations wouldn't resolve their problems at this point. Sitting at the central command node, the astronaut pulled up the tracker app that had been used for the dirty deeds, and back-traced Allie from the moment he had set foot on the island, at the end of the 2033-34 school year.

The youngest sibling had spent almost no time with his birth family or in their shared villa, opting instead for hunkering in the laboratories under the Hackenbacker villa or the Thunderbirds hangar, inside the Island's core. In fact, out of three nights spent on the Island, the younger male had slept elsewhere than his bedroom all times. He had eaten all meals in Hiram's house, or once on a sector of the shoreline that they almost never visited, given it had only rocky shoals and almost no good views. The real information started yesterday evening, after the boy had locked-up his family.

Firstly, he had made several trips between the kitchen and redoubt to pack the foodstuffs in the bunker, then gotten his relatives together to move them at gunpoint. Then, he had gone to the service tunnel airlock that gave onto the island's trash dump, where he picked up a brand-new hover bike & trailer they had never seen with a set of travel cases for clothing and tools. He then moved to the northern docks, a small cement structure that was completely ignored for the last three years, as it only housed the automated garbage barge that brought all their trash and detritus to the recycling plant hidden in Menenoa Atoll's fake military ruins. As luck would have it, the barge did its pre-scheduled run every Monday at 11:00pm, after the clean-up from whatever weekend parties or gatherings had happened. Or at least that was the logic of the schedule. Since almost nobody from outside the family knew the Island's location, it wasn't like they could have crowds or huge assemblies of relatives, and most of their extended kin were long-dead anyways.

The sensor trackers showed clearly that Allie had boarded the trash barge with his bike & trailer, then settled in the piloting cabin to wait-out the menial trip to Menenoa. From what the four siblings could tell, he disembarked at the garbage treatment plant docks, then immediately moved into the underground tunnels, heading towards the administration center. Then the auto-tracer lost the signal, reason unknown.

Scott shook his head, declaring "No. We're not heading to Menenoa until tomorrow morning. All of us need a good supper and long night of sleep, then an early breakfast before sailing for the atoll. Besides, with the number of boats and planes in there, Allie's probably long gone. Grabbing a cabin-cruiser and doing the trip for Australia would only take some three hours to Sidney, nothing the boy couldn't do easily. So, we'll eat, sleep, take a good shower and hot meal around seven am, then go to the atoll."

Nobody contested, as all their four stomachs growled at the same time, preemptively protesting further delays at feeding them.

"Okay, I think that's my cue to start cooking stuff," Virgil quipped amusedly as the other three turned imploring gazes on him.

Ahoy, the Slag Heap!

(Stargate SG-1– opening theme)

Tuesday 27th of June, 2034; 22:05pm

Sunken Ha'tak of Anubis

Pacific ocean, due-South of Alaska's Aleutian (West) Islands

Alan Tracy smiled widely between bites of his late dinner as he read through the preliminary reports scrolling on his console, showing the progress of the reclamation work aboard the sunken alien ship.

The teenager had gotten the shock of his young life when his more advanced robots had reached the downed vessel; it was alien, that was sure now.

Since Alan had designed all of his robot workers or soldiers along WASP and IR standards, they could all go down to 25,000 feet without suffering ill effects from pressure, cold or sea-salt corrosion while they worked. The torpedoes had done the basic reconnaissance, but without limbs they were far too limited for the next phase of work. Now it was time for the 'hands-on' recovery team to go get the close-in details. When the team of tetrabot – techies arrived in the open hangar, they had immediately found the power and network systems, the plumbing, and the hydraulics pipes that moved the doors and ceiling-mounted tools.

The very moment the first bot had connected to the wires and found them still active, Alan practically had a heart attack at the young age of fourteen. The text used by the alien computers was exactly similar to that used in the old series "Wormhole X-Treme" that started in 2009, some 25 years ago. As in, an exact and exhaustive version of what the TV show had used in the scenes where they used alien technology. Alan let the tetrabots do their jobs with the basics of dry-securing the hangar as he concentrated on deciphering the network's OS and apps because he wanted to access the database, specifically the records.

The language used was truly alien, but it also had parts of Egyptian hyeroglyphs, Sumerian and Akkadian cuneiform, and primitive Hebrew sigils, all ordered the same way, with the same grammar, as had been used in Wormhole X-Treme. Since Alan had spent several years geeking-out on the show, he had actually managed to learn a decent working base of the entire system, and of each component tongue. Having a friend in McVeigh Academy who had migrated from Egypt a few years before had helped a lot with learning the Arabic tongues, especially the pronunciation and tonalities when speaking. Alan had discovered in himself an incredible ease at learning written systems, be they words or math equations, so he had silently become a polyglot and symbology genius, without anybody in his family or school staff knowing about it.

Slowly eating with one hand, the adolescent had plunged into the alien scripts and found himself immersed into thousands of worlds and species that he could never have imagined. Given his ease with the linguistic basis of the network, Allie quickly entered the most pressing queries to validate key points the old TV show had used, to see just how big of a gold mine he had found.

YES!

The Chappa'ai / Astria Porta, the Stargate, was present aboard the derelict ship.

Incidentally, so were the ring transporters, several sets, and they were all functional, despite being drowned for years.

Capital systems like the hyperspace engines and sublight drives were utterly scrapped, but the gravity grid / inertia engines were almost intact, though some sectors seemed to have over-heated during the fatidic descent. There were hundreds of weapons, mostly naquadah-fed blasters mistakenly named 'plasma cannons', but the barrels were bent or ripped-off because of the damages done on impact. The sensors were limited to short range and internal, since all medium or long range antennae had been overloaded during the massive explosion just outside the ship that preceded it's sinking. That also limited communications dramatically, even through subspace frequencies. The good news was that even damaged, the comms suite could still cover most of the solar system without any major fixes, opening the doors to the wider universe for the boy and his robotic workers. It also meant that he would be able to upgrade his private network over to a frequency setting that almost nobody on earth used, thus guaranteeing privacy and security.

Hands shaking in barely contained excitement, Alan began to scroll through the Stargate's activity logs, finding that his ability to read the tongue was improving dramatically with each minute he spent on the task. The ship's gate had been used regularly over the past centuries, then all activities had stopped some 28 years back, in Earth year 2006, which matched the ship's sinking. Alan chewed on his food as he scrolled through the list of incoming and outgoing gate addresses, squinting at the few status codes or engineering notes that were written in the transport network's registers. Several of the notes were directly indicative of the climate and security at the destination, and a few detailed drydocks, troop bastions, farming colonies or mining camps. In a very few cases, the notes indicated a locked address due to catastrophic climate changes, absence of livable climate like some inert moons or gaseous planets, unbeatable animals that tore Jaffa apart, or worlds that the Goa'uld System Lords had eradicated with biological weapons for being Shol'va – traitors / rebels.

Alan then began paying particular attention to the addresses that were tagged as being wildlands, untamed planets and raw worlds that nobody had ever colonized, except for the Gate Builders who had seeded Chappa'ai across multiple Galaxies, just because they liked to explore and learn new things about Nature. Snorting in startled amusement, Alan read that some of the oldest known Gates were actually over sixty million years old, and there seemed to be multiple types of devices linked together to make the network functional. There also seemed to be two 'generations' of Gates in the Milky Way galaxy that the owners of the sunken ship had reconnoitered, the 'ancestral' model and the 'colonization period' model. The ancestral versions were millions of years old and very rare, as most had been replaced by a newer, more solid version that was still dated to fifty-plus millions of years. The Goa'uld had rarely encountered ancestral tech, and almost never knew how to study it when they did, as it was too different from their own sciences.

Now that he had read through the most important data to confirm that he wasn't hallucinating, Alan decided to plow through the vessel's ownership records and travel history to see the big picture of what he had to work with. Going to the first time the computer core was primed and activated, Alan saw that the ship was initially built on the planet Soma-Kesh under the dominion of Goa'uld System Lord Heru'ur, Lord of Damnation and Hellish Sufferings. Heru'ur was a nasty bastard that got filthy rich by building several classes and types of starships or atmospheric vehicles for paying clients. Usually, these were other Goa'uld System Lords, unless he was presently at war with them. In most conflicts between other lords, Heru'ur would sell to all sides involved, not particularly caring who won in the end, only that he got paid before things got destroyed. The shipyards were actually several orbital facilities that were fully motorized, able to fly away in case of threats, and covered in point-defense gunnery that would take several Ha'tak motherships to defeat.

The vessel in hand was a rather ordinary Ha'tak carrier-ship originally named "Thes'thannu" by its owner, the menial Goa'uld despot Hne'rrdi of planet Denni'zudi. The small-time fool had commissioned the ship from a catalog of known templates, not having the means to pay for a custom blueprint that would need R&D time and prototyping the requested devices before they could be mass-produced and installed in the hull. The ship was in service for about two centuries before it was seized in a minor conflict between Hne'rrdi and his neighbor, an equally menial despot called Tle'shut of planet Annatharah. After that, the ship was periodically won in battle or sold, over a lifespan of three millenia, until it was captured by the Dread Overlord Anubis.

Alan got a fresh coffee, then sat down comfortably to read through the records about the last owner of the sunken vessel. It made for compelling instruction, and a master-class in galactic geopolitics. The records were written by two important Jaffas; Her'ak the First Prime of Anubis, and Da'shek the ship's Chief Navigator (captain). Both men waxed poetic about how their Overlord having been a genius of multiple higher sciences who had been exiled by the Conclave of System Lords because they were afraid of his progress in barely touched domains of esoteric knowledge. Having survived his exile for thousands of years, Dread Anubis had built-up a fleet of 'advanced' ships, including some like Thes'thannu that were claimed and upgraded, along those he had designed as more 'evolved' versions of known templates. Dread Anubis had then begun a terrible war of conquest against the Goa'uld, his own birth species and culture, decimating the System Lords that resisted, or enslaving those that submitted willingly to save their lives.

This particular vessel was thus a step between the ancient 'classic' Ha'tak blueprint and the purpose-built 'advanced', which still made it a formidable fighting machine. The other important fact was that Overlord Anubis had seized this ship early in his return from exile, before his dedicated Throne-Ship had been built and put in service. As such, Anubis had lived aboard the Thes'thannu for several years, for which reason he had installed offices to hold the design and simulation tools, mechanical workshops to test prototypes of engines, shields and weapons. He had even installed heavily protected biological laboratories to develop poison gasses, combat drugs to boost Jaffas, and test applied genetics that were supposed to improve a species into better, more enduring servants with built-in psychological compliance towards the orders of Anubis and his chosen Primes or Heralds. Once the Throne-Ship entered service, barely three years before Thes'thannu was sunk, the Dread Overlord moved his living quarters and scientific research to the newer vessel, leaving behind a lot of equipment he believed to be obsolete as he would create better versions in his new abode.

Alan leaned backwards into his chair, eyes closed and mouth pursed into a thin, tight line as he tried to order all the new facts into his mind, to form a linear story plot he could follow without meandering like a drunken fool in a fog bank.

Firstly, the TV show Wormhole X-Treme was NOT simply a TV show imagined by some nerd. Mister Martin Lloyd, the writer of WXT, had claimed to have been visited by aliens who were telepathically giving him the ideas for his iconic series, just like Gene Roddenberry who created the first original Star Trek in 1966. Thusly, the man had been able to supply the script team with a complete alphabet, vocabulary and grammar, with additional symbols and religious iconography. He produced a completely new mathematical system to base the tech on that actually worked, to the point some companies had begun using it to do R&D and put out products for commercial usage. Then, Lloyd had included the natural element naquadah as basis for all the capacities of the ruling Goa'uld species and their awesome machines, driving many to search for a similar element in the real world.

And it was all true, not fiction.

It was all based on genuine events, from genuine species, worlds and machines that did exist.

Alan had no idea if the man was visited, contacted, or an actual alien himself, but the proof of it all was in front of him.

These aliens had come to Earth several times over the millennia, leaving devices, cultural practices, and perhaps even biological exemplars that had affected the evolution of humanity, animals and plants. Humans were not alone in the Universe, and if some of the WXT episodes were to be taken as fact, then alternative dimensions and timelines were also existent, thusly the Multiverse Theory was a functional science that had to be taken into account in any strategic planning.

Pushing the heels of his hands into his eyes in an effort to relieve the pressure of the building headache, Alan looked at the ship's records, forcing himself to keep on reading.

It seemed that once his Throne-ship was built, Dread Anubis had confided the old Thes'thannu to a newly converted subordinate, the Goa'uld Osiris. The Overlord then commanded Osiris to capture, hold, interrogate and execute prisoners of diverse sorts in his name. In the year of Earth 2005, Osiris fought and managed to defeat an Asgard battleship…

What the ever-loving fucks?

Asgard? As in the Viking Odinite legends, Asgard?

And they were allies of the… Tauri? Soldiers from Earth, America in fact, who travelled the Stargate network to offend and attack the Goa'uld? Break the System Lords to stop their enslaving of billions across thousands of worlds…?

What kind of crazy Multiverse was Alan and his robots stepping into?

So, it averred that Lord Osiris defeated an Asgard capital ship, the Beliskner, personal vessel of Thor, Supreme Commander of the Asgard fleet, based in the Ida galaxy. The Goa'uld was attacking an Asgard secret laboratory in the hopes of capturing the lonely and isolated scientist working there on matters of genetics and… cloning… replication of biologicals… mutations and improvements to known species…

Yeah, Alan could see a pattern emerging. Throughout history on Earth, emperors, kings and popes had all wanted to have the best, strongest and most fearsome warriors to ensure victory as they conquered everything in sight. And while training and weapons were a big part of that process, the warriors had always been limited by the 'human condition' of having one head, two arms and two legs attached to a torso. The limits of physiology and internal organs were relatively well known, across the ages. And that meant that every tyrant or government had tried to modify, improve, mutate or flat-out forcibly change humanity to produce a new race of super-soldiers. Anything from basic pain-management pills to performance enhancement drugs, to psycho-actives, to cybernetic implants, to selected breeding had been tried. Eventually, dark rumors about attempts at Frankenstein tech to clone people or build entities from manufactured parts grown in vats began to circulate and never stopped.

And it was all true.

Overlord Anubis had been deeply involved in biological research, attempting to create super-soldiers that would replace the Jaffas as first-line assault troops, and become his Praetorian Guards to protect him from the betrayals or corruption common amongst the naturally born & raised species. In fact, over the millennia, many System Lords of the Goa'uld had tried their hand at genetics and creating servant species, but the workable results were very few, and hard to locate. In fact, most of the Goa'uld research into biology seemed to be limited to weaponized diseases or parasites, or when they found an Ancient device, from the species that had built the first Chappa'ai. Anubis, however, seemed driven with a vision of owning an army of artificially grown soldiers who answered only him, thus making them faster and cheaper to recruit, and far more loyal due to command codes imbedded into their brains at conception. The synthetic loyalty would be constructed by DNA encoding into the cortical engrams, cybernetic implants programmed with a private language, and psychological programming entered via neural connectors. Dread Anubis wanted organic bots, as simple-minded and loyal as Alan's robots, but more polyvalent and able to retool or reeducate themselves to accomplish their current mission, unlike machines.

And for that ultimate goal, capturing an Asgard scientist specialized in genetics, reproduction, mutation and evolution promised an invaluable step forward to all the R&D the Goa'uld emperor-to-be had already achieved.

The Asgard Supreme Commander had personally defended the laboratory, but it had been insufficient. Lord Osiris had destroyed the Beliskner and captured Thor, securing a prime prey for her Master. Anubis had come to the Thes'thannu to interrogate the prisoner himself, by the use of an invasive neural probe implant that connected the Asgard Hero's mind to the central computer of the ship. Once physically connected, the massive central processor would use the Asgard's brain like an external hard disk, reading the data inside as its user had programmed it to do. This gave Dread Anubis access to fundamental strategic plans of the Asgard fleet, but also their much more advanced technologies and sciences, just like an encyclopedia about a new civilization. The Goa'uld tyrant had been able to download and copy the data in Thor's memories, then transmit a copy to his Throne-ship for later study, when imminent threats had been dealt with.

Alan, rubbed at his temples, knowing that the migraine he had wouldn't be going away any time soon.

Amazed at everything he had read in the span of five hours, the teenager was now feeling the full weight of this burden settling onto his conscience. As a child of Earth, of America, and of the Tracy's, what should he do with this hoard of data? What rights did he have to be the sole decider of how this trove was exploited? And should he go public, or keep it private to get rich by selling pieces of data or science to large companies whose R&D was temporarily stalled by lack of outside perspective?

Closing his eyes again, Alan toggled the channel for Brainchild, ordering "BC-1, new orders for a priority task. We need to find any type of cloaking technology or know-how inside the Thes'thannu's databases, or physical pieces in the hull. We need to hide this worksite, and deflect all long-range sensors ASAP. To this goal, you will task an Ark-of-Alan with the exclusive job of staying online, wiretapping the Earth's networks to find all mentions of our ship or this particular location on the map. I want an immediate report the very moment that either appear in official reports, social medias, news programs, etc… I want us to be invisible and unspoken, at all costs. If ever somebody mentions us, we have to back-track their signal, evaluate their origin and intents, then react according to the threat level assessed."

Sighing, Alan added grimly "BC-1, we also have to get some tetrabot – techies into the communications systems, to take control of the subspace emitters. We need to be able to hear what is circulating on the airwaves around us, especially to see if any starships or space-stations have been parked above Earth, or in the Solar system at large. With the Goa'uld and Asgard, and who knows what else, we have to stop blinding & deafening ourselves to the neighbors' activities."

"Brainchild-1 declares; orders received, creator. We shall schedule the tasks as given. Message ends." The robotic voice replied calmly from the speakers around the mezzanine, giving Alan a much-needed respite. As long as his private mainframe and robotic workforce were functional, he had a decent chance to make it out alive. Maybe not sane anymore, but alive. And that was a big victory in itself, considering the sorts of governments and social movances at play in the Multiverse.

Admitting to himself that he was burnt-out, the adolescent glanced at the clock, only to see the red numbers glowing 2:19am at him. No wonder he was a wreck! He'd gone around the dial today. Whelp, time to sleep, if he wanted to put his brain in the wringer tomorrow too. A sleepy, moribund kid couldn't make heads-or-tails of all this galactic mess, especially in its native tongue, so he'd best get horizontal soon, to recover some health and sense of self.

Grimacing in anxiety, Alan also had to admit that the only bedroom ready to receive him tonight was Jeff's luxurious master office and adjoining room. The water was back on in the bathroom so he could use the toilet and shower, and there was plenty of drawers and armoires to stash his personal effects without worrying about leaving stuff in boxes in a closet elsewhere. Sighing morosely, the boy got out of the chair, told the bipod – servant to clean-up and went to find some well deserved rest.

The glowing eyes of ancient evil

(Stargate Atlantis – opening theme)

Wednesday 28th of June, 2034; 4:11am

Ziggurat mercantile

Hafun, Somalia, Eastern side of Africa

Trangh Bellegant, known to a misfortunate few as 'The Hood' mafia lord, and to a few even less fortunate as son, brother or uncle, absolutely hated being woken in the dead of night by his paid underlings. It could only mean that some imbecile without any idea of how to work or live inside the bounds of polite society had created a mess bad enough that only Trangh could clean it up before it devolved into a planet-burning calamity.

You would be surprised at how many of those happened on a regular basis.

Cue the fools from the Global Defense Force, the United Nations' botched attempt at creating an integrated planetary police corps able to handle natural catastrophes and international crime syndicates.

Well, from his continued survival and booming illegal businesses, Trangh Bellegant could affirm with authority that the GDF and its misbegotten babies like the WASP corps and Orbital Survey corps were not performing up to snuff, let alone according to how they had been planned to function. Bureaucratic ineptitude at its finest hour, and all that rot…

Sneering in disdain, the fifty-two year old bald man with sallow skin, and nary a wrinkle to be seen, straightened his full-length black pajamas before donning the thick silken housecoat over them, tying off the red silk cords at the waist and neck. He slid his feet into the rubber-soled slippers, made of black felt, and gazed into the full-length mirror one last time to ensure he was presentable despite the ungodly hour of the call. His brown eyes glowed gold for a second at the humorous thought of ungodliness, given who he truly was, inside the human host's weak, long-broken mind.

The Goa'uld System Lord Rath'ahl, Master of Betrayals and Corruptor of Souls.

Apparently, he had been a rather minor deity in the overall schemes of the Goa'uld pantheon, whilst it had labored beneath the hallowed sword of Ra, Sun God, Overmaster of the Conclave of System Lords for nearly ten millennia. Until the poor besotted fool had gotten himself and his wonderfully ancient ship detonated by a primitive nuclear device that didn't even have a single molecule of naquadah in it.

There was a reason, after all, that Tauri had been logged in the Chappa'ai network as a den of Shol'va and active threat to all Goa'uld across the galaxy. Ra would have been wise to remember this, but alas, it was not to be.

Smiling wickedly, the Goa'uld parasite mumbled "Leaves more for me to play with, when the Big Wigs die off" through the mouth of its comatose human puppet.

Trangh was yet another misguided fool that had thought he was better than everybody around him, and discovered how wrong he was when Rath'ahl had devoured his mind. Trangh Bellegant had known of his Perdition only when the Goa'uld had entered his head, wrapped around his spine, taking over his brain's higher functions and memories. The young man of 20 years had thought he was dealing with a minor mafia underling, trying to negotiate a better price for selling artworks smuggled out of his native Thailand, when a discrete zat'nik'tel pulse had stunned him. He was unconscious just long enough for the eel-kin to sit his current elderly host in a chair, close the handcuffs on his ankles and wrists, then migrate from the dying male to the new, younger and fresher host lying on the ground. Then, that same zat'nik'tel had served to disintegrate any proof that the prior host had existed, leaving a much more intelligent and aware Trangh Bellegant to begin his ascension in the planet's criminal layers.

Searching his housecoat pockets, Rath'ahl made certain to have a miniaturized laser pistol and two small knives, along with the kara'kesh on his left forearm and a keyring with keys and cards to unlock the secret escape passages beneath the Ziggurat, so that he could reach the garages for a car or boat, or the small airfield for his personal jet.

Sighing deeply to whelm his patience, the mafia boss walked through the door of his bed chambers, past the private bathroom, through the private office, and down a long corridor to finally reach the communications room where the operations of his diverse legal and criminal enterprises were watched. Entering imperiously, the boss went directly to the night manager, wanting to see what the bloody mess was about, this time.

Bowing shortly at the neck, the black-skinned Somali employee pointed a finger at the bank of four monitors, declaring with some degree of fear "Master, the decryption software has found something that you will want to know. There is an interference wave coming from the bottom of the Pacific ocean. It is the shipwreck site that you warned us to watch, several years ago."

Rath'ahl frowned as he remembered well that event. It was back in 2006, a handful of years after he had taken over Bellegant's body, that the stupid soldiers of the USA lost control of their hidden projects, resulting in a damaged ha'tak class starship breaching the atmosphere to sink to the floor of the ocean, just a few hundred miles below the arcing line of Aleutian Islands. A loud, large explosion had been recorded by the sensors he had available at the time, which were few and limited. Everything indicated that the ship had been destroyed, but Rath'ahl was Master of Betrayals – he never believed anything. So, over the years he had emplaced more sensors poles along the Somali shorelines, and had a few buoys anchored to the ocean floor, a hundred miles from shore at depths between 2,000 and 3,000 feet. And now the expected event had happened.

A simple gesture had the room clear of everyone, leaving the Goa'uld to sit in the chair, using the remote management console to see and hear in real-time what the sensors were picking up. Rath'ahl held his breath as the nasty surprise hit him. The signals were complex subspace communications and short-range scans from a typical Goa'uld array, if a very powerful version. And the waves carried a signature in them – Thes'thannu, a ship under the banner of Dread Overlord Anubis.

This was obsolete news, though. With his own secret listening post in his rooms, Rath'ahl had been able to learn of the wars between Tauri and Goa'uld, the return of Anubis and his defeat, the arrival of the Ori Crusade and their defeat, and finally the bloody Wraith from the Pegasus galaxy and their ultimate defeat too. Over the last 30 years, the Tauri soldiers had savagely cut a wide and bloody swath through everything the Multiverse sent them, even managing to cripple the Lucian Alliance and several small potentates, despots and tyrants, who thought the Earth had been weakened by so many wars that they couldn't fight back anymore.

Fools, all of them.

If there was one thing that Rath'ahl had learned about the Tauri during the last nine millennia of living on this planet, it was that they had a nasty habit of claiming vengeance off the cold corpses of their enemies, no matter the odds stacked in front of them.

Proof being the previously stated list of dead, crippled or collapsed societies.

Sighing deeply, the parasite reprogrammed the console to ignore anything coming from the zone, as he would have someone more discreet do the surveillance for him. And maybe some reconnaissance as well. At least that was the plan, before his overwatch apps began to beep pressing alarms with a red arrow pointing at a specific area of the map, in the south-east of China.

The People's Red Army was mobilizing warships.

Lots of warships, in the dead of night, under DEFCON-3 status.

What bloody mess were these communist idiots about, this time?

Triggering wire-tapping apps that the CIA would happily commit genocide to own, the Goa'uld plunged through the morass of ineptly conceived network wires, relays and unstable programs to find what had gotten Beijing all a-twitter with worries and bile.

Damn.

The humans had built and spread a grid of aquatic sensors far better and more hidden than Rath'ahl had ever thought them able to produce this century. And the energy signature just screamed 'ancient' rather than Goa'uld or something comparable. So, the fools who managed Atlantis, Jewel of Lantea, had been unable to prevent the spread of classified technology after all.

Morons. All of humanity were morons, to be sure, but these were so inept as to deserve mention in Goa'uld annals.

Barely spawned prim'ta know better than to let classified military data leak to the enemy. What was their excuse, this time?

The mafia boss passed a weary hand over his bald head, worried that this could go real bad, real quick. If the Chinese got into their heads the idea that they should do a deep, active scan of the planet to insure no other ships or relics from aliens remained undiscovered, they could accidentally find his mafious operations. And after 9,000 years, being found-out just because the communists got a paranoid episode they couldn't keep in check wasn't what Rath'ahl envisioned for his future on this world. The System Lord had become used to not having an actual system to lord over, as the anonymity of small-scale operations allowed for flexibility and decisiveness in short-term tactics that being a king with a publicly declared throne did not. And the benefits of being able to walk in the streets without fearing attacks from rival lords, Tok'Ra or any of the slave races, could not be understated. There was a real pleasure in sitting at a terrace with the crowd milling about, mindless and unaware of his presence as he watched them go about their small lives.

Rath'ahl truly did not want to become involved in higher-level politics and inter-country power-plays, but in this case, it was in their shared backyard. If whomever had reactivated the Thes'thannu accidentally triggered the ma'tok cannons without dialing the naquadah feed correctly, there could be nuclear explosions detonating around the ocean floor. This would in turn cause tsunamis, earthquakes, waves of radiation, clouds of boiling vapor, and even get to the point of cracking the tectonic plates to let rise multiple volcanoes all around the Pacific Rim zone. Since there were already dozens of active major volcanoes around the perimeter of the zone, making them more numerous or more active was not a good idea.

Sneering in anger, the Lord of Spiritual Corruption made his decision, calling up his servant at the hidden drydock in the desert.

"Mechanic," he greeted shortly at the bulky, athletic figure that appeared on screen. "I do hope I haven't woken you?" When in actuality he dearly hoped he had. If he, the lord, was woken by this mess, then so would the damned minions. He would not suffer alone from this depravity.

Shaking his head negatively, the subordinate replied "No. Ever since my eye, sleep has been elusive. What do you want?"

Huffing in contempt, Rath'ahl knew full well that his minion would have trouble adapting to the cybernetic implant in his left eye, and the neural link it established between them so that the Goa'uld could control the human at a distance. Enslavement was, however, a fundamental tenet of Goa'uld culture, politics and military doctrine. Rath'ahl had no intentions of doing differently, just more selectively and without the bloody big parades his kindred loved so much. Self-adulation was one thing, but drowning in hubris to the point of holding parades and celebrations while enemy ships bombarded your palace was another.

Snort! - See dead Lord Ra for details.

Making a vague gesture of his left hand, Rath'ahl explained "The ship the Tauri idiots sank twenty-eight years back has indeed become active again. We need to get there post-haste. The Chinese Navy is committing an emergency mobilization as we speak, leading me to believe that they have sensors along the sea floor that picked-up the comms signals and noises from the downed vessel being repaired. Get the ship ready for submerged operations, we depart in two hours at most."

The mechanic glared at the Goa'uld through his round bronze goggles, his clear brown eyes displaying all the hate and despise he felt for his involuntary Master. Crossing thick arms over his chest, the employee grunted "If we take to the air, we'll be spotted rapidly. The sensor deflectors aren't fully finished yet, they only have about 60% capacity. And the EWC suite is also only at 60% due to the last minute changes you ordered last month. The engines and life support are fully operational, and the weapons are in place but not tested. I hope this risky job will be worth it."

Pursing his lips in thought, Rath'ahl countered nastily "It isn't about profit or value, Mechanic. It's about keeping those Chinese idiots from acquiring a weapon so terrible that even badly damaged it could still eradicate all livable space on Earth inside of a few hours. A single capital staff-cannon can shoot with an impact strength of 2,000 megatons when the plasma ball explodes, and there are 60 such weapons mounted all around the ship's base in two-barrel turrets. A point defense cannon can attain 250 kilotons, and there are some four hundred of them, placed by pairs in two-hundred turrets. If that wrecked ship starts floating around the atmosphere, it can devastate all life and living habitats within 24 hours, without any true efforts. So, move it or lose it."

Grunting, The Mechanic nodded and closed the channel, rudely interrupting his lord without warning. Rath'ahl was annoyed at the fool's gumption, but not in a mindset to care enough to send him some pain via the eye implant. That, however, would happen in due time, when the pressing matters were handled. Striding back to his private chambers, the mafia boss activated the telephone on sound-only as he got dressed for the road, to distribute orders and new assignments to his agents around the Asian countries. He would need information on how the Chinese Army had found-out about the ha'tak, and just how accurate and reliable their detection grid was. He also needed to know who the officers in charge were, so as to corrupt them to get a hold on the situation.

Humanity's technological level was rising far too quickly to be anticipated or slowed anymore. Sighing despondently, the Goa'uld resigned himself to planning his evacuation from the planet before he was caught. It was a sad day indeed. He enjoyed the way there was enough medias, culture and commerce to have a comfortable life, but not enough tech that he would have been threatened by the natives. And now, all he had spent 9,000 years building was about to collapse because a few paranoid idiots couldn't let well enough alone.

Where would he go, now? And how would he get there? It wasn't like ships capable of galactic travel were just lying around for him to grab one and fly off… So that sunken Stargate would have to do, for now. He would have to find a way to commandeer it long enough to choose a safe destination, one that still had environment and no large groups of Free Jaffa, Lucian Alliance or Ori Believers (mortals of all species) waiting to ambush a lonely traveling Goa'uld running from the mess humanity had made.

Ah, Hells! What now?

(Star Spangled Banner)

Wednesday 28th of June, 2034; 4:33am

The White House

Washington DC, USA

Michael K. Harland, Republican senator for Kansas of the Trumpist variety, elected US President in 2032, was in a right and proper strop, and it wasn't getting any better.

First, he got roused from bed at goddamn'o'clock in the morning, then he learned that the Chinese were clucking around like chickens with their heads cut-off, and now he was being briefed by the Chairman of the IOA Council (International Oversight Advisory) in charge of Stargate Operations. And also most of Earth's off-world affairs (for the UN in truth of fact) since 2010, about a supposedly destroyed Goa'uld ship having been *resurrected* in the Pacific, hence the Chinese being ruffled.

Oh joy, it was gonna be one of those nights…

Interrupting the SGC uniform clad drone's meaningless monologue, President Harland demanded tersely "Mister Woolsey, I do hate to be so rude as to stop you mid-propos, but if you could cut the bullshit, I would be grateful. Now; how did that blasted ship stay under our eyes unhindered for so long, when it's obviously an active threat?"

Richard P. Woolsey, the chairman of the IOA Council for 17 years, was now a veteran with more than a quarter century of experience at dealing with irate world leaders, monstrous cannibalistic creatures and exploding solar systems, simply folded his hands on his lap as he resumed his prepared statement as if the elected leader of America hadn't spoken at all. "… And following the daring, in-extremis exfiltration of SG-1, the Goa'uld ship was seen to be destroyed by internal self-destruction systems. The result was a single massive explosion passing the 300 kiloton range, and the sensors humanity had available at the time told us that the vessel had been reduced to irrecoverable bits. As such, under the belief that there was nothing but scorched debris and radioactive particulates to recover, the SGC / Pentagon of the day decided to close the file and forget about it."

While admiring the bureaucrat's gonads at being able to traipse roughshod over his ill-temper, President Harland wasn't going to let it pass either. The bald little screen-swiper (instead of paper-pusher; Harland was a modern man, after all) was gonna learn who's boss in this country. "I asked HOW in damnation this boat was allowed to stay active under our watch. You said it was thought destroyed. Fine. But why didn't the Navy, or bloody Space Force for that matter, give the area a good scan once in a while to make sure? We know these Goa'uld are tricky characters. They rarely stay dead, even when chopped to bits. Like that bastard Baal. He went and cloned himself so he'd have an army of loyal, reliable people to work with while conquering our planet. Now, in the light of that, why didn't your much vaunted IOA keep an eye on the blasted ship?"

Blinking both eyes slowly as he measured his response, Woolsey replied politely "Sir, the fact that we are able to tell you that China has entered a state of heightened alert is because of their participation in the IOA Treaty. Furthermore, it is because the IOA did, in fact, emplace sensors around the planet that we know why this panic is happening. While the original crew of the SGC were operating out of Cheyenne Mountain they did quite the marvelous job, but were also very limited. Between the fact that America was the exclusive user of the Gate, and secrecy towards the People as much as foreign nations, the commanders of the Gate were not able to do a tenth of what the IOA has in its mandate. We did our due diligence, especially in light of the many attempts at sabotage, kidnapping, murder and triggering acts of war between our partner nations that have been committed by various aliens over the last several millennia. Several members of the IOA executive felt that the downed ha'tak was not as completely destroyed as the submarine's limited sensors had perceived, so we put in place sensors and upgraded them every five years, just in case. And that caution has paid off tonight."

Snorting from his non-amusement at the pile of steaming shit being sent his way, President Harland asked tartly "And you are all just figuring out tonight that the blasted thing is active? Why is that? And why haven't you people used those fancy little round shuttles from Atlantis to inspect the bloody heap before now happened?"

Sighing despondently, Woolsey answered "Because for all of the magnificent resources that Atlantis has brought back to Earth two decades ago, we are still very limited in what operations we can conduct planet-side. All governments involved in the IOA Treaty have ordered the maintenance of secrecy about the Stargate and connected themes, without exception. As such, that limits our ability to use shuttles or other vehicles of that technical level in Earth's atmosphere. Secondly, most nations in the IOA are actually quite weary, and often led by paranoid people for some, thus making it impossible to have World Security operations in their lands without prior agreement. And while the creation of the GDF to handle low-level threats across the globe was a good first step, the fact remains that they are also obliged to ask permission prior to moving capital assets or committing arrests of citizens above the level of 'peasant'. Meaning anybody linked to the government or local cults, as priests and ecclesiastes tend to have power and even law-bound authority in some territories. The GDF's only beneficial aspect is that they can work openly, without fear of publicity, mediatic scrutiny or parliamentary committees going crazy on them. Until the SGC / IOA have achieved a similar status, our hands are bound so that we can use less than one fifth of our resources on our own homeworld."

"So, it's the politicians' fault for this mess! Is that your enlightened conclusion?" the President fumed aloud.

Shrugging the man's anger away carelessly, Woolsey countered "It was the collective decision of the world's leaders to keep the population in ignorance, rather than tell the truth and face decades of religious or racial wars across the globe as those who obtained power from primitive superstitions (religion) would fight to keep their hold on that ill-gotten power. In fact, I remember attending a closed & classified meeting of the US Congress at Area-51 where the representatives and senators were more worried about being denounced and reviled by their white Christian voters at the behest of their priests, rather than the Goa'uld Anubis pounding on the planet's borders. The name of vice-president Robert Kinsey comes back to mind. You were there as Kansas senator, and supporting Kinsey's position of obscurantism, if my recollection is as good as normal."

"Cute, Woolsey! You think you're cute! Don't you, boy?" snarled the President as he sloshed some steaming coffee into a mug, drinking it black and hot to wake himself up properly to deal with this bloody mess.

Smiling tightly at the other man, Richard Woolsey demurred sarcastically "I am passed 74 years of age, sir. I don't think cute has been a consideration of mine since I first saw a goa'uld outside of a host. Then the Replicators, the Ori and the wraith… Let's just say that I haven't got any hair left because they fell out from sheer fright before I could pull them out at the sheer stupidity exhibited by DC's politos despite the hordes of ravenous beasts pounding on the atmosphere to get in."

"Okay, I get your message." Harland declared as he sat backwards into the sofa. "You were governor of Atlantis in the other galaxy for a few months, before that Carter woman got the job till her retirement. You saw and did things that few people ever will. I get that you were in the trenches and all… But, this is Washington DC of America. The only concerns that matter are mine, cuz I'm the man in the chair. Now; what are you IOA people doing about that ship revving up in my ocean?"

Keeping his placid demeanor, Woolsey blithely demolished the pretentious fool's bombastic assholery; "Firstly, I am chairman of the IOA Council, thusly the nominal Leader of Earth, despite not being publicly acknowledged as such. That makes me your superior, not your subordinate. You will act as such or learn what I can do to you, and not like it. Secondly, I was in the bloody, mucky trenches for real. I had to pull the trigger on enemies of humanity and even order nuclear weapons deployed against them. I saw the explosions from the window besides the gate. Compared to a draft-dodger who knelt at the feet of another infamous draft-dodger with his mouth open like a willing he-whore, you really have no right to challenge my wartime credentials, or credibility as a fighting man loyal to Earth and America."

Since president Harland was keeping quiet, Woolsey continued just as blithely "We have sent probes to inspect the derelict hull. We'll be sending one of the Puddle Jumpers, that's one of those round shuttles from Atlantis, in a few hours, if anything important is actually confirmed. Or if the Chinese keep acting up." The planetary leader shrugged after that last part, showing his opinion of events, and how likely to happen they were.

Holding his steaming mug with both hands, a much calmer Harland demanded "Do you have any signs that the weapons have been activated or that naquadah is leaking in the water? Do we have an environmental threat to contain?"

Shaking his head sideways, Woolsey replied "Not at the moment. What was detected are mostly subspace waves and electrical waves, indicative of the comms array and secondary systems like life-support being reactivated. Some interferences in our sensors lead us to believe that the short-range sensor arrays have been powered-up as well. Other than that, nothing truly dangerous. It might be a private civilian salvage team that we will have the GDF contain, or a small nation has managed to infiltrate a dredging team under the noses of America, Japan, Korea, China and Russia, which would explain why Beijing is all a-twitter."

Making a face at that analysis, President Harland asked "And the Ruskies didn't utter a word? What about the Europeans or Canadians?"

Again, Woolsey shook his head sideways, offering "Canada's sensor grid is meshed with the US and is a founding member of the IOA Treaty. They got their warnings at the same time the IOA did, and are following their established policy of letting the IOA handle events, except to send sensor planes to observe. The European are a continent and an ocean away from it all, so they too are letting the IOA, or the USA itself, handle matters. It is only if China or Russia get their mitts on something truly world-shattering that they will demand an emergency meeting of the Council to complain. As to whether they would move beyond complaining into acting on their grievances… That's a wild guess these days. Since Vladimir Putin died at the end of 2028 and President Xi has been hospitalized for three years… Let's just say that IOA meetings have become querulous at the best of times."

Harland grunted as he stood from his sofa, dropping the empty mug on the side-table as he left the room without further comment or even a polite departure greeting for the 'international' who was his unintended guest this night. Not surprised as the man's foul temper was legendary amongst diplomats of Earth, Richard Woolsey simply patted the badge on his jacket, signaling the ship orbiting above the US capital city to beam him up. He would control the situation from aboard his permanent quarters in the One-Armed Bandit, a member of the Nevada class of intergalactic cuirassés introduced in 2030. Armed with top-of-the-line weaponry based on Goa'uld, Lantean, Alteran, Ori and Wraith systems, the One-Armed Bandit was able to stand against five ha'tak class ships without taking serious damages whilst the enemies would be slagged promptly. The ship in the Pacific might be formidable in its own right as an 'upgraded' version reconditioned by Anubis, but said Dread Overlord and all his supporters were dead for a reason, so Woolsey had no real doubts as to what would happen if the people working on the old hulk proved a threat to Earth.

Crap! How did this happen?

(Star Wars – opening theme)

Wednesday 28th of June, 2034; 6:47am

Sunken Ha'tak of Anubis

Pacific ocean, due-South of Alaska's Aleutian (West) Islands

Alan had barely managed a few hours of not-so-restful sleep when Brainchild-1 called him on the dedicated channel due to an emergency. The teenager wondered if he'd have to spend time refining the mainframe's criteria for declaring urgencies across the network then saw the maps displaying the movements of Chinese and American military assets, all converging towards his position. Furthermore, several unidentified civilian ships moving through air or water were also on direct vectors towards their excavation site.

The Chinese navy had sent out several capital ships, including their second aircraft carrier and two ultra-modern destroyers produced in the last five years. The American Navy had redirected the aircraft carrier Obama and its task force away from their treaty-mandated patrol route around the Sea of Japan and Korean peninsula. The Russian Air Force had redirected a pair of ancient Tupolev long-range EWC & Radôme (circa 1966) planes to go scan the area from high altitude, making them pass though very narrow routes of international airspace between Alaska and China to reach the zone. Several Detietse (circa 2029) class cruisers had just left Vladivostok at full steam, passing through Chinese waters, on a direct route due to old Communist treaties that gave them the right of passage.

On top of these immediate neighbors, remote nations had begun maneuvers that just couldn't be explained without knowing about the Thes'thannu getting reactivated. Canada had sent some brand-new reconnaissance planes that were trying to get there faster than Russia's old Cold War relics, or China's renewed attempt to expand beyond its legal borders. The French, English, Germans and Polish had all mobilized troops in C-130 Hercules cargo planes, aiming to bring them to Japan or South Korea within 12 hours.

And there were several large-tonnage civilian ships of non-standard designs coming their way, some from as far as the African and South-American continents. A few of these were big enough to give Thunderbird-2 a run for size and hoisting power. There was one large flying ship that was coming in at mach-4 from the eastern shores of Somalia that topped 500 feet long and was headed right for the sunken ha'tak without any prevarications. There were even active sensor pings and several of the military planes were trying to tap into the subspace comm-lines, thus showing these guys were an actual threat as they possessed alien tech.

Having no choices, Alan ordered the one thing he had wanted to avoid at all costs.

"Okay, Brainchild-1. Declare the protocol 'Diaspora' in effect. I want our Stargate accessible and functional in the best times possible, and the ring transporters as well, just in case the gate won't connect off-world. On the side, I want you to dig through the Thes'thannu's historical database to find everything about Noah who built the Ark in the Christian bible. I have seen some representations of him that show his Ark as a pyramid rather than a wooden boat. I think he might have been Goa'uld, or some other alien, and the Ark is actually a station-house that protects a passageway to a safe zone, away from Earth. We need to find that place, and secure a path to reach and occupy it. Order set complete."

"Brainchild-1 declares; orders received, scheduling of tasks has begun. Priority list adjusted as declared. Message ends."

Alan roughly ran both hands through his short blond hair, grunting in anxiety as the worse scenario to be imagined was now unfolding around him. The planet's powers were somehow aware of what he had done, and they were coming to confiscate everything, and probably put him in jail if he didn't die of a convenient archaeological dig-site accident before then.

Well, no.

He wouldn't be going off into the night silently or easily.

He wouldn't be a victim anymore.

Not to anybody's rage, perversions or dreams of power.

Not ever again.

Getting quickly dressed in an armored field-suit, he put on the helmet and life-support backpack, secured all the connections and activated the wireless comms to have live-stream with his private network. Now fully awake and connected, the adolescent packed the few things he had undone for the night and carted everything down to the garage, to load on the Aeroquad in preparation for the Diaspora that was coming to pass. As he walked back to the elevator to go to the bridge to manage things, he crossed paths with tetrabot – Braintrust who was carrying Brainchild-1 towards the moonpool to leave the Command Center to be near the Stargate. The Diaspora protocol implied that the mainframe module be as far away as possible from the conflict, all the way through the gate if it could be managed.

Walking up to the master console of the CC, Alan began entering the self-destruct commands, linked them to the remote-control apps, and locked all the set-up under Brainchild-1's specific encryptions to make certain normal people couldn't bypass the safeties and overrides Alan had created. Then he begun warming up the impressive weapons and drones that were the ships' defensive array, preparing for a war he didn't want but couldn't lose. The boy wanted freedom, in life or in death, but he would be free, and nobody would take that from him anymore.

Activating a dedicated channel, he demanded "Ark-of-Alan-1, what is the status of the ha'tak's reclamation?"

The robotic voice replied "Ark-1 statement; goa'uld ship is presently 15% dried-closed with nano-skin, pumping is under way. Life-support is non-functional. Gravity grid is operating at 40%. Hyperdrive damaged/off-line. Sublight drives damaged/off-line. Sensors operating internal & short range only. Comms suite is operating at 85% but limited to this solar system in range. Combat shields (kinetic - monophasic) limited to 15% under water. Weapons stations as follows - capital ma'tok cannons 12 out of 60; point-defense ma'tok cannons 174 out of 400; missile launchers 2 out of 6. Transport rings 5 out of 24 sets. Stargate is responding but still two hours away from being accessible physically. There is a transport ring system in the gate room, but the ocean water's pressure and temperature mean that Creator-Alan cannot pass unless encased in a vehicle with armored & tempered canopy. End of report."

Nodding in admission of the facts, Alan ordered "Ark-1 focus your efforts on the weapons that do actually work, not those that need repair. Transfer all the liquid naquadah that isn't needed by the damaged systems over to the working machines, especially the shield projectors, cannons and decentralized generators to keep up the electricity & network around the hull. Prepare a defensive plan that covers the area from the core of the ha'tak out to 10,000 yards around. I have programmed the Command Center to respond to Brainchild-1 and the Arks as much as myself, so factor that into your plan. End of orders."

The robotic voice on speaker replied "Ark-of-Alan-1 declares; orders adjusted. End of message."

Making a face of anger and stress, the fourteen-year-old walked off the command mezzanine for the last time in his life, knowing that the massive ship wouldn't survive the coming conflict. This was a necessary sacrifice to ensure that Alan and the majority of his robotic workers escaped the unholy crucible the Earth's governments were building around the area.

X - X - X - X

It only took another three hours for the first military airplanes to arrive above the zone, the Russians, Chinese and Canadians having somehow managed to enter the 10km defensive perimeter Alan had determined, all at the same time. The only reassuring fact was that none of the planes had any fighting capacities, only sensors and EWC suites. The waterborne ships coming in the following 10 – 12 hours would have all the bells & whistles though, and then things would get messy.

However, three hours had been enough for Ark-of-Alan-1 to accomplish his primary orders; the corridors and rooms leading to the Stargate embarkation room had been sealed with nano-skin and pumped-out. Portable life-support generators were supplying breathable air, heat, power, light and relaying wireless & corded comms from the outside of the sunken ship all the way to the core rooms where the principal systems were housed. At the same time, the cargo movers, harvesters, techies and professors had worked diligently on getting as many weapons turrets mobile and able to shoot the full gamut of options the ma'tok cannons normally had, including the option to feed liquid naquadah into the breach to create proto-atomic detonations at the point-of-impact. The unholy firepower of the main guns would compensate for the deplorably small stock of missiles, and the limited choice of warheads.

Astride his Aeroquad, Alan drove his personal belongings into an old-style elongated cargo & crew cabin IR work-pod equipped with floats, aquajets and phonon masers in case things got bad faster than predicted. The boy then latched into place his vehicle and trailer, sealed the pod, and signaled the bots to flood the garage so he could get out. It took merely ten minutes to fill the huge garage with frigid ocean water, then another twenty minutes to reach the open hangar in the side of the pyramidal structure of the sunken ship. Thankfully, the atmospheric shield had been easy to repair and the internal pumps had worked, so draining the hangar had been an almost automated process that didn't take much time. That meant Alan could drive his work-pod directly into the hangar, settle on the metal floor and unload his Aeroquad with nary a delay or concern.

The moment he was on solid deck plating, Alan spoke to the bipod – professor in charge of moving all cargo and personnel to the Stargate embarkation hall for protocol Diaspora to be completed. "How are we on preparing the convoy? And have we made any headways towards the Pharaonic Suite?"

The vaguely humanoid robot replied "Professor-4 declares; Convoy is now prepared at 70% of established baseline. The tetrabot – techies have managed to dry-close a path to the Dread Overlord's floor and are in the process of pumping-out the adjacent rooms, closets and transport rings. We have also identified useful conveyances, Creator-Alan. The Dread Overlord had installed an airlock with six-seat escape pod on each of the three sides of his floor. These pods are specifically designed to pass the diameter of the Stargate without having to retract accessories. All three are functional without issue, to which is added the discovery of a remote auto-dialer system created by Anubis in each pod. Preliminary tests show that the mechanism was made retro-compatible with both ancestral and colonial era Chappa'ai. Furthermore, the dialer was programmed with a hijack/override function that makes it the dominant dial/controller in the zone unless another custom-hacked dialer is actively used. Further informations available."

Nodding in satisfaction, Alan ordered "Have one of those pods dismantled so that the dialing module is integrated to an Ark-of-Alan as a mobile master-key for the Stargate network. And order that the regular dialing podium of Thes'thannu's gate be affixed to another Ark, so that we have two hard-wired gateway controllers. Once that's done and tested, I want all the programming for the combined functions to be shared between Brainchild-1 and all the Arks until you're all updated and proven able to establish full control over any type of Stargate you encounter. Continue informations, please."

"Professor-4 declares; as you wish, Creator-Alan. The harvester units have managed to salvage several humanoid corpses that were severely decomposed and exhibit characteristics proving they are not humans. Brainchild-1 has deduced that they are Jaffa, the slave/warrior civilization indentured to the Goa'uld parasites. This was demonstrated by the abdominal pouches containing the remains of primta and the solid metal tattoos on their forehead. The bodies had naquadah alloy armor and weapons, including still functional ma'tok staves and zat'nik'tel pistol-adjacent energy projectors. One body bearing officer's sigils also had several Tacluchnatagamuntoron (remote controlled laser grenades) and a vibro-sword in his bandoleers, plus a hara'kesh and Jaffa-key embedded in the glove of his left hand, and he had a zat-ring in the glove of the right hand. There was a particularity to the main weapon carried by this officer. His ma'tok staff was much shorter, like a sub-machine gun, with a boxy scanner on top and a sort of lamp underneath the muzzle. We are still trying to identify its type and usage. Further informations available."

Alan pursed his lips in thought as he processed the data. It would give their group a lot of good tech to retro-engineer and adapt into the frames or tools of his fleet, as it grew in numbers and became more versatile. "Have any small vehicles or ships been found, besides the Overlord's escape pods?"

"Professor-4 declares; yes, Creator-Alan. We have found the remains of three partially built death gliders of the 'upgraded' style, and one almost fully completed al'kesh bomber of the 'upgraded' style. The bomber's only missing elements are the weapons and cloaking device, otherwise all fundamental and utilitary systems for civilian usage are present and active. The hangars and glider launch bay have spare parts pre-assembled into segments, similar to our own fleet's method, to produce nine gliders and two al'kesh if we had two months to work without other tasks. Aside from the space ships, we have found a warehouse with a device we did not know existed. The scientists of Anubis produced an antigrav platform to carry a set of transport rings through the Stargate so as to then hack passed the securities on the rings of an enemy fort or ship. The plaform is bulky and floats quite slowly, but it also serves as portable generator, water reserve, climatic shield & filter, and the retractable poles hold lamps, sensors and zat'nik'tel emitters to defend the perimeter from animals or enemies. These poles also house antennae to serve as comms relay, and link with the vision-orb on the manutention console. End of message."

Alan was smiling widely now, as having a few more local defense ships would help greatly in buying time for the protocol Diaspora to be enacted with a bit of booty from Anubis' old ship instead of fleeing empty-handed. And the mobile rings were a nice bit of kit to have on hand, both as quick access and basecamp node during exploration missions that would eventually happen. Not to mention that the Jaffa technicians had to have made R&D notes and a building manual, which would be kept in the ship's central data core, which was being copied integrally so they didn't lose the one thing that had value above all else, including the gate.

Nodding at the robot, the teenager ordered "Okay, get the almost functional gliders and bomber ready for combat under remote piloting, then ask Ark-1 who's in charge of the remote ships for the defense perimeter. He'll interlink them and handle things from that point. I want at least the ma'tok cannons active with full firing options on all four ships, but if we could get the missile launchers on the al'kesh to work, that would be great news. However, take the bomber's cloaking device and put it in the pallets of hardware we're leaving with. That piece will be of more use to us for exploration jobs, or to hide a camp in the first weeks and months. As soon as possible, I want all the external hangars and airlocks to be shuttered and calked with nano-skin, with our units moving down to the gate hall unless they're assigned an emergency or priority task by Brainchild-1 or me directly. We've been lucky to have this long to prepare our departure, but the enemies have arrived, and we need to move. End of orders."

Bipod – professor-4 replied simply "Orders received, Creator-Alan. Scheduling in progress, procedures for departure now moved forward due to urgency. End of message."

Tapping his comms, Alan activated the channel dedicated to Brainchild-1 to send orders. "BC-1, I just updated the schedule, and I have complementary jobs for you to distribute. I have a suspicion we won't be fully ready before the enemy ships arrive in less than 12 hours. So, we need to prepare a few contingencies. I want the ha'tak's hyperspace engines activated, but don't bother with propulsion or mobility, just the ability to create and orient a hyperspace window, especially in water or air. Then, I want to have some of the Jaffa-sized staves, pistols and laser traps placed around the ship with overwatch & firing done by an Ark on our network, separately from any Goa'uld tech or signal so we don't get hacked by a parasite. And we need to find where Anubis hid his stockpile of war gases. The psychotic bastard was as genocidal as his brethren, so he'd have bio-weapons or chemical gas in grenades or cylinders that plug to the vents. We need to find those and spread them around Thes'thannu, the Command Center and all the dependent ships we field to hold the defensive perimeter, just in case the foreign military have teleporters that don't need rings or a receiver. Since a few of them have subspace comms, I wonder what else they have, and how they got it."

The mainframe node replied "Master schedule reset has been entered. Assigning of tasks in progress. Brainchild-1 has suggestion to render current network less susceptible to hacking; convert all written and verbal fully over to Borg linguistics. As Creator-Alan has proven ability to use this language base without external help, our units could convert normal operations to Borg while still using Goa'uld and component tongues for excavation and manipulation of alien artifacts. Also, harvesters have recovered one 'Jaffa-key' from dead officer. It would take less than 30 minutes to integrate to your armor, thusly creating a third hard-wired mobile dialer for our fleet, and better secure your safety and mobility under fire. Further information available."

Alan rubbed the lower part of his helmet, in lieu of his chin, as he thought about the suggestion. It had a lot of merit, amongst other being the fact he would have a genuine Goa'uld computer & comms on his forearm, making him far more compatible around the gate network than adapted human tech. But while he was at it… Why not take the other devices too?

Addressing the mainframe, Alan said "Good idea, BC-1! I'll go see the corpse and take some of his other weapons too, in case I need something stronger than the masers in my forearms. That sword thingy sounded useful in close quarters, and his gauntlets were tricked-out something fierce. Too bad he didn't have an energy shield or powered-weave cloak or something of the sort… Do you have any other items for me? You said further informations…"

The robotic voice replied "Indeed, Creator-Alan. The ship has been modified in that the top eighth of the pyramid opens into a three-pronged claw to generate an intense subspace field for inter-galactic communications that then do not necessitate relays in the manner that regular subspace lines require. However, the device is broken beyond our current ability and schedule to repair. It only emits massive quantities of hard, exotic and toxic radiations straight upwards, while no comms signal is carried. I recommend to disconnect the device and reassign the power and parts to more pressing tasks. End of message."

The teenager snorted as he shook his head sideways in a vigorous negative. "Nope! I have a way better use for that misfiring radio set. Do you have in your database the TV shows, films and cyber-games that I set in, as the basis of your management knowledge? You didn't need to remove it, to house the Goa'uld stuff, did you?"

The robotic voice replied "Negative, Creator-Alan. All initial datasets are intact as part of boot sequence and fundamental toolkit for apps and comprehension skills. All additional knowledge gained has been compressed, or is being housed in portable Goa'uld crystal servers that we have discovered in several rooms and closets. Dread Overlord Anubis was quite avaricious, in terms of data storage, and kept adding new servers to house everything he and his technicians produced. We have been able to appropriate many mobile data-vaults and prepared them near the Stargate for protocol Diaspora."

Smiling even more, Alan ordered "I want you to look-up the Star Trek – The Next Generation series, and find references to the Borg, specifically the methods the United Federation of Planets used to fight them. There's a two-part episode that has what I mean for you to study and emulate with the broken magna-comms on top of this boat. Execute updated orders."

The voice in the speakers assented "Brainchild-1 declares; orders received. Reference datasets ST – TNG have been found. Study under way. Updated schedule being processed. The bipod – healer-2 and tetrapod – techie-8 are waiting for you to update your armor gauntlets and fit your supplemental equipment. Follow the guiding arrows in your helmet's holo-display. End of message."

The young man nodded at empty air, shoving his thumbs into his belt as he walked towards some new toys and ideas, while the robots and vehicles got in line according to his plans. Maybe spending so much time playing StarCraft-3, Age of Empires V or Sid Meir's Alpha Centauri II was a waste of time in some people's eyes, but right now it sure paid off in spades! And Alan was willing to bet that those few hundred hours on America's Army and GDF-Online would be profitable soon too. Those IR simulators back on Tracy Island and Menenoa Atoll sure had been useful, that was already proven by where he stood, and what he had built.

My, what great glowing eyes you have!

(Stargate SG-1 – opening theme)

Wednesday 28th of June, 2034; 8:51am

Sunken Ha'tak of Anubis

Pacific ocean, due-South of Alaska's Aleutian (West) Islands

Goa'uld System Lord Rath'ahl, Master of Betrayals, studied the images on the holo-emitter as his mighty ship approached the sunken ha'tak that had once housed Anubis, Dread Overlord of the Conclave. When one compared his amphibious carrier with the ancient accomplishments of his species as they travelled the stars, it showed how paltry the vehicle was, and how much Rath'ahl had settled for bits & pieces during his overly-long life. The Goa'uld could have built himself an empire on this mudball, taking advantage of the slave revolt from 8,000 years ago whence the secondary Chappa'ai had been buried, and the primary was still lost on the southern continent of Antarctica. He could have ruled as Pharoah, building gliders, al'kesh, and even eventually an orbital shipyard for ha'tak of his own design to crush his unruly siblings and their querulous spawns.

Instead, look where he had wound-up; hidden inside a mid-tier mafia boss, and not even an infamous one either.

Sitting here, in the menial imitation of what a real System Lord's throne should be, Rath'ahl realized just how badly he'd botched his life. Nine millennia spent hidden from the population, jumping from one small-time hoodlum to the other, and never making more effort than the minimum necessary to have comfort and anonymity. A few parties, a few soirées at the opera, a private library full of rare tomes and artworks… He had basically lived the high-life as defined by crowned nobility across all species, cultures and epochs, and most of it with few genuine efforts on his part. Taking over a host meant access to their memories as well as their offices, houses, private bolt-holes and all such. It made blackmailing or extorting victims insidiously easy and efficient, with little protection to be found as he could simply disappear into a new host and attack from an unexpected angle later.

No, Rath'ahl had lived an easy life, full of splendor and riches, but without strain, effort, or any excitement since almost the expulsion of Ra's last Jaffa from the planet.

He had known about the poor fool Seth, of course. But as he was a fool, guided only by his host's loins and a secret, shameful addiction to his own synthetic Nish'ta gas, Rath'ahl had always avoided him. And Seth had never truly been aware of his presence, although he did suspect that a few of their species still dwelled upon the Earth, for a time after the secondary gate was buried.

In point of truth, thirty-four years ago, when the humans had accidentally found how to use the recovered Egypt gate, Rath'ahl had barely paid attention. He had been more worried that Ra and the Conclave would come back to retake control over the planet, thusly ending his easy life, invisible in the fringes of polite society yet powerful in the under-layers of criminality.

As he watched the line-drawing shapes of the ha'tak and plane-like ship hovering nearby, both so much bigger than his own flying masterpiece, the Goa'uld was obliged to admit to himself that he had indeed gone lazy, somewhere along that first millennia of being alone of his kind on the world. Seeing himself devoid of actual competition or threats, he had slumped into a sort of waken stupor, moving, speaking and deciding but never at more than a tenth of his full potential.

He had gone soft in the head, just like his broken host.

That would explain why he had decided to take-on The Mechanic as a close collaborator, revealing fully who he was after taking a few basic precautions like the cybernetic lens that linked their minds. A miniaturized variant of the hara'kesh technology made specifically to be implanted in Ashrak assassins to let them communicate between members of an operational team, or with their Lord while they were doing body-guard duty invisibly in the crowd during ceremonies. The Mechanic had, of course, been truly impressed by the technology of the neural-link, but far less with its application upon his person. More's the pity, really. When the muscle-bound employee decided to test and experiment with the options on his side of the system, then he'd be ready for being educated on matters of the Stars, Lords and machines the sights of which he could barely dream of.

Speaking of which, the leather-clad technician walked close, looking at the console through the round bronze googles he insisted on wearing even when there were no fires or chemicals around. "Rath'ahl! That winged ship is the International Rescue Command Center. It was supposed to be decommissioned and locked in mothballs forever. Well, no matter. The outer hull is plated with Velocium, a synthetic element invented by Hiram Hackenbacker. When alloyed with other elements, it makes protective layers that deflect sensors and vari-cams. Also, I hope you saw the turrets over & under those wings… Those are massive Phonon Masers, able to shoot in single beam, strafing bolts, or wide blast to act as CIWS when there is a mine field or cloud of debris. And there's also the massive Pulse Torrent cannon in the nose, and the hunting Photon cannons in the wingtips. The odd thing though, is that I can't see any human or alien life-signs inside the vessel. There's a single life in the ha'tak, but none in the others. I'm guessing a troupe of robotic devices controlled by a single person, some lucky bastard who hit a gold mine, without knowing what he got."

Nodding slowly, Rath'ahl acquiesced the statements glibly. "Yes, I saw. I simply don't believe they will be that much of a threat, given that we have a barrier shield installed, instead of the kinetic/monophasic system preferred by Goa'uld and their servants. This shield does not lose efficiency in atmosphere or deep water, and will deflect whatever energy stream the humans invented."

Crossing his arms over his chest, The Mechanic replied "I would't get too cocky about that… This barge doesn't have the heavy structure and utilities that a ha'tak does. We lack in power generation and the cooling plant is fragile on a good day, not to mention that I was limited to mundane human alloys when crafting the shield projectors themselves. I foresee that a lot of pieces could overheat to the point of melting, or vibrate till they crack and fall to pieces, or just shut down to avoid short-circuiting."

Nodding absently at the prattling servant he was essentially ignoring, Rath'ahl frowned at some new readings on his display, wondering what the fools aboard the derelict hull were doing with a communication array that powerful, and clearly that damaged. Why power-up the thing? And were those IR work-pods moving transporter rings up to the antennae atop the pyramid? How odd…

"Mechanic, you should take a closer look at this activity, and figure out what they are doing. I will be contacting the occupants of the ship to establish some form of negotiations. Use the co-pilot console."

Shrugging in answer, the tall, athletic male moved to go sit at the appointed console, but kept a weary eye on the proceedings.

Rath'ahl toggled some buttons on his private desk, making the far edge retract and raise a traditional vision-orb so that he could address the people who had taken possession of the ship. And the Goa'uld was not blind; nearly a quarter of the weapons had been reactivated, while a trio of death gliders and an al'kesh bomber were orbiting along a virtual perimeter nearly three kilometers out from the wreckage, shielding the ha'tak and IR Command Center that was the obvious source of all this mess.

X - X - X - X

Wednesday 28th of June, 2034; 9:39am

Alan was busy reading through a list of what was found in the Jaffa infirmary that had been found near the gate hall, hoping they would have time to do a similar search in the laboratories of Anubis before leaving. What they discovered was revolutionary just in terms of databases for thousands of sentient species, animals, plants and new elements or molecules. There were hundreds of antibiotics, and even the Holy Grail of medicine, genuine antivirals that were proven efficacious. Some of humanity's worse diseases could finally be managed with less pain or disability, when there was no outright cure. And the two healing devices that had been used by the Jaffa to repair physical injuries were a great boon to his budding armada. Already, a pair of bipod – corpsman had the devices plugged to their hands, able to use the clever machines by directly connecting to the wires inside, instead of using a neural-link due to naquadah in the nerves and blood. This gave Alan yet another layer of safety, given he was the only human in the entire assembly of moving parts.

Sipping some hot coffee as he finished a simplistic breakfast made of a pair of BLT sandwiches warmed-up in what passed for a microwave oven inside Anubis' personal quarters, the adolescent was utterly surprised to see a piece of thickly built naquadah furniture open its flat top to raise a functional vision-orb with an image inside. For some unfathomable reason, somebody was trying to contact Thes'thannu the old-fashioned way.

Putting on his helmet and making the faceplate opaque, the young man moved to stand at parade rest before the orb, looking at the solid button controls at the base of the sphere as he arrived. There were very few buttons, mostly because a System Lord would have used a neural-link device to remotely control the thing. Thankfully, Alan had managed to get a kara'kesh melded with the left forearm of his armor, so he was able to fake being a Goa'uld, until he ascertained the situation.

Making sure the orb was sending the image back to the caller, Alan raised his left arm and managed to mentally control the imager to improve the focus, clarity, zoom-in on the figure and raise the sound, while making certain that nothing from his private network was picked-up by the console's wireless antennae, just in case.

Inventing a name on the spot, Alan declared pompously "Cree, infidel! I am Alnizam Raba Alaidtirabat (Arabic; The System Lord of Unrest) the acclaimed and undisputed Master of this most glorious Sun Chariot. Declare your identity and intentions upon my demesne, base-born knave, or suffer the wrath of uncounted hordes of Jaffa bearing my silvery crest upon their brows!"

In the spherical image, a middle-aged bald male with sallow skin and clear brown eyes made a face of distaste in reaction to being addressed in such manner. Rath'ahl had forgotten, over the past millennia, just how imbued of themselves most of his kindred were, and they really did love hearing their own voices pontificate to an audience. Schooling his features into neutrality, the mafia boss tried to remember who exactly this twit was, given he'd never heard of him. Must be from off-world, then. Something that managed to follow the humans back to Tauri and silently land on the surface when he detected the sunken ha'tak. Also, alien influences could explain the technology International Rescue had put in service in the last three years, for those weird things that The Mechanic had not been informed of, when he worked for them.

Clearing his throat, the crime boss made his eyes glow golden in response to the challenge, declaring firmly "I am System Lord Rath'ahl, Master of Betrayals and Corruptor of Souls. I have dwelt upon this world for nine thousand years and yet, I have never heard of you. I suspect an imposter, or at least a naughty primta trying to sound more mature than it actually is. You should return to your Jaffa's pouch, child, before I feast upon your cold, raw corpse to celebrate my victory."

Tilting his head to the side, Alan countered with a glib quip "Cannibalism on top of using naquadah in your body? That would explain the horrendous disposition, mental instability, mood swings and tendencies towards using violence as entertainment. My royal lineage has evolved from such primitive practices and achieved a clarity you cannot divine. Now, cur of whichever weakling eel spawned you, abase yourself before my almight, and you may yet know a kind death. After a few decades bouncing between the pain tables and sarcophagus. It wouldn't do to let the riffraff believe that I have a weak hand at tending my borders…"

Blinking his glowing eyes, Rath'ahl honestly wondered what this fool was playing at. Yes, on one hand he did speak as many in Ra's court did, back in the day. And he held himself with a sort of steadiness and trust in his situation that was credible, given that he presently had more mobile ships and active weapons than his opponent. But, really? Insulting the other's birth and genitor all in one declaration? Where did he learn etiquette? Surely the Conclave educated its primta better than this. Scowling in anger, the System Lord came back "Be docile and quiet in your obedience, and perhaps I shall only employ agony rods upon you, instead of the kara'kesh as you so richly deserve! A few months of having your nerves aflame in such manner that your paltry host can't help heal with his immune system would surely entice a more civil disposition out of your childish temper."

Huffing in amusement, Alan replied "This is strange… Is there interference in Anubis' old machines or did you just volunteer to be cloned and then have the clones linked neurally to exponentialize the pain of each individual as well as the group? And such a nice idea for a new form of torment! It was quite neighborly of you to suggest it. I give you my personal assurances that it will be put to nefarious uses the moment we can lay our hands on your four-fanged hide. Dread Overlord Anubis would soooo dislike seeing his cloning equipment go unused for so long, I do believe it's the correct moment to warm-up them old vats."

Frowning at the rather nasty threat, especially if he could implement it, Rath'ahl wondered again who he was dealing with. The humanoid figure's armored suit and opaque helmet gave nothing of his identity, and while his accent was an odd mix of merchant cant and high court's dialect, he wouldn't be the only royal to have spent time slumming around the seediest parts of the Chappa'ai network for business, or to have a life away from Ra's judging glare. However, Rath'ahl was an actual System Lord by birth of royal blood, in the same generation as Hathor, Osiris, Apophis and Heru'ur, to name those with accomplishments to their names. There was no way in which it was acceptable he be bested in any challenge, even a simple verbal joust.

"Well, then, kindred. Let us meet face-to-face and see who torments whom for the next century or three. It should prove quite a bit of interesting sport to figure out the winner." And eat that, worm-kind, thought Rath'ahl, waiting for a visible reaction.

The faceless figure gave an inelegant half-shrug of the right shoulder, replying blandly "Feel free to ring over, I have plenty of space to house you and your men. Anubis liked his goals wide and numerous, although that did translate to a whole lot of very small, dank and cramped naquadah cages without plumbing or ventilation. They do have a pretty good view of the work floor with all the pain tables, pilori, iron maiden, and all that… So just beam over, we'll keep the branding irons warm, just for you…"

Then the helmeted figure moved closer to the vision-orb, declaring in low, soft words that menaced even more; "But you can't do that, can you, menial beast? Your much vaunted lordly ship doesn't have rings or any sort of matter transference, doesn't it? That's why you want me to abdicate, to resign before the fight even starts. Because your boat is just that… An atmospheric craft devoid of any true space-age tech. You sit there with glowing eyes, making threats while praying to good old Ra's ghost that I won't just vaporize you and your moving pile of junk without further thought… And I will do just that. I have three gliders and an al'kesh aiming at you, plus my operations carrier's own stupendous weaponry. Surrender now, in the immediateness of the moment, or be destroyed beyond even the abilities of the Gate Builders to bring you back!"

Using his neural-link, Alan silenced his voice outside his helmet so he could address his mainframe node with urgent orders to win this first fight. "Brainchild-1; priority tactical orders! Have all three gliders use their ma'tok cannons pre-set for a power of one ton analog per detonation. Each glider is to punch a dozen holes into that 500 foot long ship, like a dotted line. Starting 50 feet behind the prow and stopping 50 feet before the stern. That should avoid exploding the bridge or main engines, but flood most of the compartments and crash their weapons. Bring the al'kesh and dock it to the ship as escape pod, but stun the people who get inside. Once we have those who can manage an escape, send in harvesters and servants to hijack the ship to service us. The moment our units are plugged in, we need to know about that shield they use, and all the other techs they carry. If none of the people aboard survive the strafing run, then that's the luck of warfare. As far as I know, none of them are important enough to make special dispositions to grab them intact. Execute under combat protocols, Creator-Alan-1 over."

"Brainchild-1 declares; priority tactical orders received and applied. Initiating preemptive hostilities and seizure of enemy ship, tech recovery desired, crew recovery optional. Combat protocols in progress. End message."

X - X - X - X

Wednesday 28th of June, 2034; 10:01am

In one of the fastest and shortest battles of the coming conflagration that would mark and shape Earth's history for generations, the long and round amphibious ship of Rath'ahl, ex- System Lord of the Goa'uld, was set upon by three death gliders with only their basic fighting kit. Each of the two naquadah-enhanced blaster cannons shot bolts of superheated plasma that each exploded with a force similar to one ton of TNT. Each cannon shot 12 bolts, the paired weapons firing in tandem patterns that did look like two parallel dotted lines. Until the lines exploded into 24 matched detonations of radioactive miasma, fragmenting the ship's hull plates, internal structures, utilities, furniture and crewmen, while also scorching and irradiating them.

Within seconds, The Hood's mighty submersible had lost its barrier shield as the projectors strained so much to maintain the energy layer over the hull that some emitters boiled themselves down to molten slag, while others managed an emergency shut-down for critical cooling. Whichever the case, the moment a single shield panel was off-line, it opened a fatal window into the ship's inner workings, as the hull's human-made alloys could never hope to cope with Goa'uld blasters. In a single strafing run, the three gliders had undone the bombastic pretensions of their opponent, reducing the prototype ship to a sinking derelict.

Out of the dark murky waters emerged pure white lights, intense and focused, as the al'kesh searchlights probed the carcass for survivors and important pieces of technology that may have been blasted out of the ship by the brief and victorious pass-of-arms.

"Brainchild-1 declares; Creator-Alan, attack plan has been victorious. Enemy ship critically disabled for use by air-breathing lifeforms. Our units will not suffer setback from immersed status. Ship recovery imminent. Tech acquisition imminent. Survivors are being searched for, but expectations low. Conclusions of combat data: lesser blaster power would have better chances at retaining survivors for interrogation. End of message."

Alan sat in one of Anubis' plush, sculpted naquadah chairs, taking his helmet off so he could breathe open air, or as much fresh air as a ship under reclamation has, anyways. Trying to calm down from the sudden spike of raw adrenaline in his veins, the teenager had no choice but to watch the laptop on the table, the touchscreen showing the aftermath of the viciously decisive battle, and its obvious lack of surviving humans. The adolescent closed his eyes and bent his head, trying to regulate his breathing so he didn't end-up vomiting or passing-out from post-fight shock. Now was not the time. With the short episode of cannon fire, the sensor planes circling above the ocean surface would have detected the conflict and sent that information back to their governments.

And those governments would now tag Alan's person, cause, efforts and associates as enemies.

The clock had just run out on them, and they needed to start protocol Diaspora now, recovered tech or not.

"Brainchild-1 declares; Creator-Alan, bridge sector of enemy ship has survived, but with heavy damages. Two life-signs within the bunkered area. Water infiltration is rapid and the low temperature makes hypothermia a certitude. These are the only survivors we can recover with our current means. All other 37 life-signs have already gone inert. Al'kesh is in position to cover the bridge viewport with its cargo doorway and climatic shield to facilitate the transfer. Tetrabot – shieldmates 3 and 4 are present to handle the human and Goa'uld with stunning weapons. What are your orders?"

Alan raised his head, looking at the image of the two ships floating near each other, the much smaller bomber with its rear ramp already lowered in preparation for the recovery operations. The golden glow of the climatic shield made an intense contrast against the rocky grey of the Goa'uld hull compared to the night-black of the human vessel. He had one decision to make, and while it wouldn't make much difference in the end, it mattered to him.

"Okay, Brainchild-1, bring back the survivors. Have them stunned on contact and physically bound with metallic chains that are welded, so they have no locks to pick. Have the units make certain to remove every weapon, tool or piece of tech they can identify. In the case of implants, identify them in the report and make sure the medical units who will treat them know to neutralize and remove them for our analysis. If they die, then so be it. But if they live, then I'll talk to them both. Execute."

The forlorn adolescent watched silently as his fleet of robotic workers efficiently extended the bomber's shield to cover the floundering ship's bow, cut away the viewport's steel shutters and glass panels, then use phonon masers to stun the surviving crewmen. The capture was done without resistance as the half-filled compartment's frigid temperature had already begun sapping the strength and life from the two men, rendering them unable to fight against the boarding party. Once the organics were safely aboard the al'kesh, technical and harvesting units went into the enemy vessel to enact seizure. Immune to water and pressure at this depth, the robots cut open the doors of compartments already flooded but left closed the rooms that had, miraculously, remained dry despite the 72 explosions along the outsides of the hull.

Alan tapped his keyboard, switching view towards the air, looking for changes in the flight patterns of the enemy planes, or to see if his EWC units had intercepted any messages that could indicate what was coming from the hostile powers.

Seeing that the bomber had finished transferring its takeover crew and was returning to the main ship to dump the prisoners, the adolescent stood and folded the laptop, stowing it in his backpack and shouldering the kit. After a few words of instructions to the robots that were analyzing the pharaonic level for dismantling and retro-engineering, Alan was passing from the rings on the Overlord's deck down to the prison deck, which had just been dry-closed a half-hour ago. As many military and civilian craft had been closing in, the boy had the idea that they may need a purpose-built floor to hold hostages or interrogate avowed enemies before disposal. Anubis' goals would serve their native purpose anew, under a lord not Goa'uld this time.

X - X - X - X

Wednesday 28th of June, 2034; 11:52am

Joran Knowles, alias The Mechanic, roused with a start as his body registered heat and dryness enough to resume wakefulness. It only took seconds more to realize that he was lying on his side on a metal floor, utterly naked and bound with clanking metal chains that linked his wrists, waistline and ankles together. His mask was gone, and he could feel an ache in his face, on the left side, with what felt like medical gauze covering that side of his head.

Opening the working eye, the young man craned his neck to look around, quickly confirming that he was inside a metal cage, on a floor full of similar cages, and a wide space filled with instruments of pain, humiliation and death occupied the middle of the vast, dimly lit chamber. By the decorations and cold, humid and salty air circulating around him, Joran figured he was aboard the alien pyramid-ship, captured by the enemy Hood was trying to bullshit into surrendering.

Snort! That crappy plan went into the bloody loo at flanking speed, didn't it!

"Don't bother straining." The Hood's voice came from the cage next to his. "These chains are only steel, but thick enough to hold even a drug-boosted Goa'uld from breaking them. Also, there are no locks to pick, as the links were welded. We are well and truly bound, until our host comes to greet us in person."

Managing to sit with his legs crossed, The Mechanic moved his brown eye around, seeing that there was an empty cage between himself and the crime boss as precaution to prevent them from assisting each other. Their chains were also linked from the wrists to the cage door's locking device as an extra measure to keep their movements controlled, in case the cage had to be opened for healing or moving to one of the torture machines. The only plumbing was a hole, to one side of the cage floor, and a small rivulet of tepid water that dropped from the ceiling bars directly into said hole in a basic attempt to keep the offal going down and away.

From the shadows floated a ghostly voice, derisive tones well evident despite the voice modulator that generated it. "Hello my good guests. I see that you have passed the transition from sinking ship to captivity rather well. How do find the lack of comforts? Anubis was not very creative with the floor plan, but I do say he got the basics right. And quite functional, too."

Rath'ahl and Joran turned to peer into the shadowy sector from which the voice had come, but saw no shapes even though they thought they had perceived movement.

"I particularly like this one… A very basic metal chair with multiple restraints that has retractable electrified spikes through the backrest, seat, footrest and armrests. Most importantly though, it also has a practical little machine that monitors the life-signs of the victim and maintains the oxygen mask and intra-veinous lines full of medicines, or toxins. And a secondary little device that is something dear Rath'ahl might remember from his youth… A vision-orb hard-linked to memory-recall and hara-kesh connectors to penetrate the mind of prisoners, to steal their secrets or program them as hidden assassins. Quite useful trick, isn't it?"

The black & grey figure of their captor slowly emerged from the shadows on the far side of the prison floor, moving between the cages as if he were visiting a curio shop, trailing careful fingers on the metal bars on each side of his person as he advanced towards his waiting victims.

Pointing a finger at The Hood, the System Lord of Unrest demanded "Those two cybernetic eyes you had… Where did you find them? Anubis had no such devices in his archives. Tell me, Rath'ahl, or I'll gleefully use the mnemonic chair on you to rape and extract the knowledge from your vermiform brain."

Glaring impotently, Rath'ahl replied "You must be of a generation born in the last millennium to ask such a silly question. The Eyes of Ra have been around for thousands of years. They allow a System Lord to communicate with his Ashrak enforcer secretly via neural-link anywhere on the same planet. Plus, the signal can be relayed or boosted by network equipment that were designed specifically for this task."

Nodding slowly, the dominant Lord acquiesced verbally "Equipment like the Jaffa helmets, vision-orbs, kara-kesh, and command consoles of ships. Basically, any Goa'uld computer interface or comms panel. Thank you, worm. I had already known, but wanted to see if you would lie just to be irritant. You have saved yourself a great deal of pain, and me some petty entertainment. A pity, but not for long. When I begin asking for secrets, your ego and hubris will surface, and your misery will rejoice me."

Joran Knowles took the small pause the two aliens did for their glaring contest to slide-in a question; "What did you do to my face? I can't feel my left eye."

The opaque black faceplate turned towards the black-skinned male, contemplating him for several long seconds before the unidentified person decided to answer. In careless words, Lord Unrest declared blandly "We took out the cybernetic contact lens that had been implanted beneath your cornea. In both of you. Having that silent neural network to communicate between you and your machines in ciphers the current police forces can't understand was quite intelligent. But against me, it was futile. I already have better encryptions running on my private network, and I also have neural-links built-into my armor and machines. Taking the lenses from you was a simple precaution, amongst many that were enacted." Sarcastically, the figureless Lord demanded "Is there any other problem you want addressed, or can I move-on to making Rath'ahl suffer unimpeded?"

Shrugging both shoulders, Joran countered gamely "Well, if you're offering so nicely… How the Hells did you get your mitts on the International Rescue prototype Command Center? Jefferson Tracy told me that nobody would ever fly that thing except him, and it would burn when he died so nobody could break that promise. He was an ego-driven bastard as bad as Rath'ahl and you, so I doubt he sold it, or let you abscond with it without a shoot-out."

Hooking his thumbs in his belt to adopt a pose of indifference, the hidden Lord asked curiously "And how, pray tell, do you know anything about the IR ships and their usages? I didn't see your face on the employee roster, when I was pillaging their hangars."

Both men ignored Rath'ahl's huff of surprise, concentrated on staring at each other as they were. Joran knew he'd lose the contest as he had only one eye working and the enemy had a matte black faceplate concealing his identity and nature, but he wouldn't give-up without a fight. Deciding spontaneously that since he was free of The Hood's electronic enslavement, he could make his choices and take big risks, if the reward was worth it. And making himself useful for this guy could be worth it.

"I was the engineer that Jeff Tracy used to design and build his staging theater before IR was enacted. Whenever he had wanted to make something with weaponry, his other tech refused. Also, I alone had managed to perfect the prototype FTL-1,35 rockets that can push that ship to lightspeed. Hiram Hackenbacker was better with AI, robotics and factory automation, but I was better at vehicles, engines, mobility and armaments. If you input my name, fingerprints and retinal scan into the engineering console on the bridge, you'll retrieve my hidden archive from a phantom server that Tracy and Brains never knew about."

The masked Lord queried "Are you talking about the console Hiram Hackenbacker made for himself on the mezzanine, or the one for the crewman surveilling engineering matters in flight? They don't have the same security ranking, and the master console has hard-wired connections to several ghost datastacks that we have found, and decrypted."

Giving a blithe smile, Joran replied "If it were my archives, you'd know just by the number of weapons and intruder repelling systems I had been thinking about, at the time I worked for Tracy. No, what you found belongs to Hiram. But given how old man Tracy treated everybody in close proximity to himself back then, I'm not surprised goody-two-shoes Hackenbacker decided to put in place a few safety insurances for himself and his kid."

Tilting is head to the left, the masked enemy asked softly "How did you meet Jeff Tracy, and when did you begin working for him exactly?"

Blinking his functional eye slowly as he thought back, Joran explained willingly "I was pretty young. Let's see now; I was a bloody juvenile prodigy that jumped grades in primary, secondary and university, so I was fresh out of uni at 17 with diplomas in power systems engineering, vehicular mechanics and paramedic/police vehicle design. That was when the Great Hero of Mars came to recruit me in person for a THI project, right at my graduation ceremony at MIT in Boston. That was 13 years ago, since I just turned the big 3-0 a couple weeks back. As for the big projects, I worked on building expanded facilities at Menenoa Atoll while Brains was digging out Tracy Island and Matteo Island next to it. I worked on the Command Center and Thunderbird Shadow while Hiram did the Search & Rescue dedicated ships. We both worked on the space station though, because it was that big a job that we were both needed, and it was the only one that Jeff helped with himself."

Growling menacingly, Joran finished "I had suddenly realized that old man Tracy was done with me when he ordered the Command Center put in mothballs and forgotten. If my biggest one-man job got side-tracked to the gutter, then the end of my line was reached. Barely a week after the garage doors were sealed, I got booted out and told not to bother applying at THI for an above-board job or home-contracts. After all that hard work, I got dropped for dead in late 2031, after ten years of loyal and fruitful services without so much as a by-your-leave!"

Lord Unrest asked curiously "The security recordings and testimonies of the people living on both Tracy Island and Menenoa Atoll don't show any existence or presence of you, at all, in those years you speak of. Why? And how is that possible?"

Shrugging, the athletic engineer replied tartly "Old mister Jefferson likes to look progressive and accepting in the medias, but he's a hard-core right-winger. He's been a Republican practically since birth, and has a lot of sympathies for the far-right and white supremacy militias. He pushed on the election of Michael K. Harland for US Senator of Kansas, just like he had helped that criminal bastard Robert Kinsey before him. Tracy's got some pretty unsavory links in the Deep Old South that he inherited from his dad and grand-father, and he worked all his life on maintaining them active and profitable. A lot of his pals in Washington DC are from the Fox News fringe-kooks, and a lot used to be in the USAF and NASA along with him. A lot of Q-ANON and Trumpers too, since the fool bought into the Big Lie about election frauds and foreign spies manipulating the ballot boxes. He was one of Trump's favorite "Human Hero" and "Pure American" show ponies to parade during rallies. And the old crud just loved the attention and applause he got when he stood on that stage, besides the Liar-in-Chief."

Snorting in dark amusement, the masked captor remarked "You sure didn't like the man. Why did you work for him, then?"

Moving so he could lean backwards on the bars of the cage like a backrest, Joran explained "I was an orphanage kid. Really smart to the point that a lot of people were scared of me cuz I had no parents to 'control' my attitude. I was alone, and the only one responsible for my actions and worse, my thoughts, wishes and dreams. Can you imagine? A black boy in an evangelical Christian orphanage, the only colored kid in the institution, in all-white Boston's suburb. And you see how tall and muscular I am? I got that way by the time I was 15. The teachers at elementary and secondary school were afraid of me just cuz of my size, and the university staffers at MIT sometimes startled when I didn't make enough noise to warn them in advance that I was approaching. Getting out of there at age 17 with 3 full bachelor's diplomas was another mark of my abnormality. A 22 year-old guy managing three diplomas side-by-side can be done with a certain ease, if the teachers collaborate and a few business sponsors give you some external support to fight-off the stupids in the school admin. But all-alone me, and a good five years earlier than most of the 'prodigies' from good, white Christian families that are MIT's normal clientele? I would have been lucky to find work as a home appliance repairman, given so many of the parents and students were circulating rumors. The most common being that I got the diplomas cuz of the school's 'Wokeism', that the admins had obliged the teachers to cheat the grading system to make me pass despite being an idiot nobody. Because in their eyes, being parentless and being poor were just as bad, and just as criminally my fault, so no one should ever trust me with a job, certainly not in their town, near their pure and virtuous Christian daughters."

Looking down at his bound hands, Joran sneered nastily as he detailed "Jefferson Tracy was a once-in-a-lifetime miracle, and he knew it. He acted like our Holy Savior, towards Hiram and Me, whenever he could. But I had it worse. Hiram was recently widowed with his two year old kid when he was hired at age 26, a decade older than me and a slew of gigs successfully accomplished to his name to serve as references elsewhere. I had nothing and nobody, and a threat by Boston authorities to put me in a 'special' school or institution till I turned 21 if I couldn't find work with my fancy diplomas. Being black, poor and orphan is bad, even in the supposedly progressive, open-minded north of the USA. Tracy knew this, and exploited my despair the moment he laid eyes on me."

Sighing despondently, Joran gave painful details of his past conditions. "One of the things Tracy imposed on me was that I was to be -invisible- around the work site, unless Hiram or Him had need of my direct assistance. I worked alone, in total isolation, and usually didn't leave the submersible boat that was parked not far from the area. The only times I left the boat were for my vacations, but I had to sail the ship to Australia or New Zealand, to a desert cove to weigh anchor, then move aground on a quad to do my errands or leisure. Tracy treated me like the old cotton plantation bosses used to. He needed my work but reviled my existence and feared my presence because of how big and muscular I am. I frightened him. Often enough he would goad me, trying to scare me by saying that he owned me, that he could whip my ass and nobody would protect me from him. He was the Owner and Master of those islands, the Sovereign country of Jefferria, and no law but his law under Christ was in vigor. And I heard that a lot, in the years I was there. That I was only tolerated, that I could work and be paid, but not actually be 'present' as I would be a disruptive influence on his good and obedient children. He treated his other employees not far from the same way, to the point I wasn't even allowed to let them know I existed or have social relations with them. Hiram was the only exception, under tight restrictions. The old man Tracy was running a sort of nihilist Ku Klux Klan sect with a clutch of ignorant fools, but nobody knew or cared."

The unidentified Lord made a vague gesture of the right hand, asking rhetorically "How can anybody think of running International Rescue with just five people, two of which never go in the field? There were five Thunderbird ships, but only three field agents to conduct rescues, and he kept them working without delimited shifts or days on/off scheduled. He used his sons like paladins in a crusade, not caring that they got sick or injured from being worked till burning-out, depression or PTSD attacks. And he treated both the Hackenbacker's and Bellegant's like serfs in a father abbot's fiefdom, too. The Jefferson you describe has details that I didn't know about, but nothing that surprises me for real. And I did know about that small boat, always submerged, that was parked halfway between Menenoa and Tracy Islands for years. I never saw it directly, but I saw the sensor readouts and life-support surveillance reports that showed -something- alive was aboard in those times. I never knew it was you, or what you looked like."

Having had enough of being ignored while feeling that he'd learned all the good stuff that could possibly come out from the pair of maudlin' fools, Rath'ahl demanded "Who the Hells are you, to know so much about International rescue, Jeff Tracy and his precious Islands?"

The masked figure shrugged, then unlatched his helmet to reveal a very young blond haired, blue-eyed male teenager. "I'm the fifth son of Jefferson Tracy and Lucille Evans. Alan Shepard Evans Tracy, not at your service, rot grub. And by the way, I know who's that flesh puppet you're in. That's Trangh Bellegant, the older brother of Kyrano Bellegant, the man that Jeff rescued from a collapsing illegal diamond mine in Malaysia, some seventeen years ago. I saw a few pictures of you, on Tanusha's laptop when she asked me to debug it for her, back at Christmas holidays. Nice to see we're keeping all the shyte in the family, so to speak."

As he blinked his golden eyes in surprise at the turn of events, Rath'ahl's careful cogitation was interrupted rudely by the raucous belly-laugh coming from the other cage. Being too occupied with his manic outburst of hilarity, The Mechanic never saw the matching glares the other two were sending at his spastic form.

And so it begins

(Stargate SG-1 – opening theme)

Wednesday 28th of June, 2034; 12:20pm

Tauri cuirassé One-Armed bandit

Orbit above Washington DC, USA east coast

Aboard the Nevada class cuirassé One-Armed Bandit, the sensor officers were finishing their morning reports to Chairman Woolsey when a priority line sounded on his console. Dismissing the soldiers, he tapped the controls to close the door and turn the glass panels of the office bay window matte white to insure privacy. Sitting in his desk chair, he activated the holo-emitter to have a panoramic image of the group of callers all in one view.

On screen appeared the US president Michael K. Harland, the prime minister of Canada Rory S. Cornhusk, the president of France Gaétan Du Poivilier, the prime minister of England Sir Horace T. Burkhall, the president of Russia Gorgik Androskovitch Echanaya, and the interim chairman of the Chinese Communist Party, president pro-tempore Hu Dengchu.

Mister Dengchu began the conversation immediately in very hostile tones, demanding crossly "Woolsey! Why have your men not seized or destroyed that Goa'uld ship yet? What is the current status of that mess in the Pacific? Why are you allowing a declared menace to exist at the borders of the sovereign People's Republic of China?"

The English leader cut-in tartly "More than two thousand miles off your coasts is nowhere near 'your borders' mister Dengchu, unless you're trying yet again to hijack sea floor to put missile launchers and mining operations! Even your fancy artificial islands have never been recognized by the UN or IOA in three decades they've existed! Why should this change today? Now let the man give us the sit-rep in peace and we'll all get answers."

President Harland snarled testily "Not to mention that the area in question is a lot closer to the Aleutians Islands, which are recognized American territories for more than 150 years, than they are to China who sits more than twice the distance away! Why exactly are Chinese ships and planes cruising in my waters and airspace?"

President Du Poivilier countered "I do not believe that the zone nearly 500 miles south of the Aleutians line is actually the territory of any single nation, according to UN navigational charts. As such, your posturing and saber rattling is for naught. Neither of your countries will be given sovereignty over the area any time soon. Now, chairman Woolsey, please proceed."

Ignoring the offended faces made by the two leaders, Richard Woolsey gave a succinct summary of what had happened since he had been woken in the middle of the night due to the derelict ha'tak of Osiris being reactivated. That went down like sand paper rubbing on an open wound, and things exploded when he described the short-lived fight of the mid-morning.

Interim president Dengchu shrieked in indignation "Why have you not rained fire and devastation on that aberration? What are you waiting for to do your job? A swarm of Goa'uld larvae to infiltrate the Earth's population to enslave us all again?"

Chairman Woosley answered with far more outward calm than he felt, given how impolite and aggressive the Chinese leader was towards everybody in sight. "We are waiting to see what is actually happening on board of that hull. The fact that an unmarked and unidentified amphibious ship was sunk and seized by the ha'tak recovery crewmen does not actually imply criminality or threats to our nations. The 500 foot long ship was back-traced to Somalia, in the peninsula where is located the Ziggurat Mercantile, a known mafia hotspot for multiple centuries. We have beamed soldiers down to the underground garage where the ship emerged from, but they're still in the process of fighting passed the robotic sentries and automated turrets that defend the emplacement. Given that this level of military-grade weaponry was never allowed by what passes for government in Somalia since the late 1980's, we are operating under the assumption that a mafia or rebel group is behind the design, building and operation of the ship. As such, we do not feel the need to approach the people working inside the ha'tak as hostiles unless truly proven. Fighting-off pirates, smugglers, mafia and armed rebels does not constitute a crime under International Law, nor the IOA mandate."

President Dengchu shouted rabidly against the assembled men "How can you Americans be so incredibly moronic? How did you survive so many decades at the SGC if this weakness and folly are the only attributes you bring to the task? I demand that Woolsey be replaced immediately so the successor can whelm an attack against our enemies!"

Prime minister Cornhusk rose an eyebrow inquisitively as he asked the booby-trapped question "And who could replace mister Woolsey at the head of the IOA Council on such short notice, especially with a crisis on our doorstep? He has been governor of Atlantis for a year, and head of the IOA Council for nearly seventeen years; where would you find matching experience and wisdom to perform in the job at an equivalent level?"

President Dengchu replied immediately, his tone making no concessions and leaving no doubts he must be obeyed immediately upon having spoken; "Ha Xiapeng, second vice-president of the Chinese Communist Party, is the only man with enough military and secret service experience to handle the posting competently. He will bring swift and enduring victory, cleansing the Earth of this parasitic menace once and for all."

Sir Burkhall huffed in disbelief, countering with vitriol palpable in his words "The man in charge of the anti-Uyghurs concentration camps and their extermination policies since 2010? The man who used the zat'nik'tel technology to insure the bodiless and proofless disappearance of roughly 1,000,000 million muslim people per year, over twenty-four bloody years without reprieve, is who you want to put at the head of a diplomatic Council representing the Earth with our foreign allies? What do you expect him to do when he meets the Tok'Ra Elders? Roast them on spits as hotdog wieners and call it a day?"

President Dengchu sneered at the English boor, wishing he could exterminate his kind as they had with the Goa'uld and similar under-species of the Multiverse. While the IOA sanctioned troops carried on wishy-washy diplomatic parleys, the men sent forth by Mother China in Chinese designed & built ships never backed away from a fight, and they never returned with anything other than full, total and irreversible victory. The cloaked colonies Chinese soldiers had secretly plotted and constructed on nine different worlds to date would be the launching pads from which a cleansing force of Red Armies would strike-out at these infidel fools and expurge them from the Mother World, finally and permanently. As it should be, and never be challenged again. Before he could voice his displeasure at being defied by peons and infidels, someone spoke.

President Harland chuckled darkly, asking venomously "Are you serious, Burkhall? Since the fucks when is it a crime to fumigate a country against vermin? If the only thing you can reproach this Xiapeng fellow is culling a few terrorist brownies over the last quarter-century, then he can't be that bad! However, given China's latest blatant attempt at stealing international land and waters right under our noses, I can't rightly condone one of them sitting in the chair. Woolsey's an American, and we have enough trouble from him as it is! Bloody 'internationals'! Always thinking they know better than us 'local' people! Well, we do know better! We're the ones who built the SGC in the first place! The IOA was just a dumb tag-on invented by Euro-Commies to hijack power and shove wussy policies down our throats! Well, I won't have it anymore! Like our Great Philosopher of Citadel America, Donald J. Trump, did and maintained all his life, I will only support an American for that chair. Furthermore, I've had enough of these godless, faithless imbeciles who only talk about maps, climate, geology and protecting trees! From now onwards, the White House will only support candidacies from evangelical devotees, after their vetting by loyal bishops of the Pure Faith of the Ture Church of Jesus our Lord, the American Christ, in public ceremonies! Nothing else will satisfy the American People ever again! Amen!"

All the other national leaders shouted back against the US president's racist, religiously bigoted screed, both denouncing and challenging his spurious affirmations. Mister Woolsey shut them down by declaring blithely "And that, gentlemen, is why nobody will be replacing me any time soon. Not only because you can't agree on the basic requirements for the post, but also because all the men you put forward would be extremists of one doomsday sect or another. We just spent the last 34 years fighting against false gods and galactic crusaders, and yet the first arguments out of your mouths are 'god, church, priest, faith, submission' and such related mind-rot. Fortunately, the IOA Council's full body is required to pass the job to my successor, therefore none of your gormless puppets will ever receive the votes needed to hijack this office and transform it into a proselytist tumor upon the UN and humanity at large."

The meeting was descending into a virtual pit-fight when president Dengchu declared "Enough! I have had enough of sins, felonies and depravities from the rotted souls of Europeans and Americans! Your debased foulness will no longer fetter us to chains and cages of your making! From now on, China will unilaterally commit the actions that must be carried out when a menace is discovered upon our world. WE, the People of Qin, shall cleanse this blight, and display the trophies of our victorious conquest for you to admire and envy! Let it be known that ANY who attempt to stall or stop our movements will become known as enemies of the People's Republic of China, and war shall immediately ensue! We will no longer let the white skinned colonizers and christianity's deviants command us! We are Qin! We will prevail! And your Trump knock-offs can go burn in the Hells that spawned them, as they rightly deserve! End of message!"

The Chinese signal interrupted rudely, leaving the rest of the national leaders to try and contain the damages all the while feeling a wind of panic sweep through their group. If the Chinese leadership had become so unstable that they no longer tried to keep the Stargate Command and alien societies hidden from the populations, then all of their political systems could come crashing down around them, and precious little would survive such a catastrophic paradigm change.

A comm line from out of the office sounded, the voice of the One-Armed Bandit's captain saying "Chairman Woolsey, the Chinese warships have begun approaching the sunken ha'tak… One of them has just launched torpedoes… And they've been intercepted by ma'tok point defenses at 9 kilometers from the hull. Capital cannons have already retaliated… The blasts were equal to roughly 1 kiloton of TNT… All Chinese warships and EWC airplanes in the area have been destroyed, with massive debris and radiation clouds remaining. It should take about fifteen minutes for the fallout to drop to the water surface. End report. Will you be coming to the bridge to monitor events in person, sir?"

Pressing a button on his desk, Woolsey replied "Yes, captain Zilnek, I'm on my way." Closing the intercom, the IOA chairman told the world leaders "I had better go to my bridge, because we all know that Dengchu won't have a predictable reaction to what just happened. He's gone unstable, paranoid, vindictive and a damned glory-hound to boot. Something will have to happen about that, or all of Earth will suffer for it a lot quicker than any of you think. This fight with unknown people is just the beginning of what China is up to. Don't forget their repeated attempts at land grabs, and the five secret, cloaked colonies they started without permission from the UN or IOA. They have a military build-up under way, and the actions of today tell clearly what their endgame is planned to be; the domination of everything in sight. We need to prepare for that coming fight, too. End of message."

With the holonet shutting down, Woolsey drained his cold cup of coffee, adjusted his uniform jacket and briskly walked out, surprisingly alert and spry for a 74 year old bureaucrat who'd just had an all-nighter on moderate threat management.

Next time

Chapter 2 – This is the End

Attacked directly by Chinese soldiers in relentless waves, Alan has no choice but enact his more violently destructive plans to guarantee his escape from Earth and the long reach of government leaders that want to destroy or enslave him.

All over the world panic sets in as the populations begin to realize what is happening in the Pacific ocean, especially when the magnificent ancient golden pyramid raises to the surface, to remind the humans once more what the true power of the System Lords was, and shall be anew.

As hundreds of fishermen, soldiers and tourists film the event directly to the Web, the national censorship mainframes can no longer stem the tide of Truth, and the ordinary folk start becoming aware of the SGC, aliens, and real geopolitics happening in the dark corners, where they are not allowed to peer.

Then the inevitable happens; alone against several armies, Alan has to abandon the derelict ha'tak via Chappa'ai, betting his hopes on an address that hasn't been used in more than three millennia. System Lord Rath'ahl remembers his older cousin Noah as an eccentric yet pacifist Goa'uld, more interested in plants and animals, agriculture and ranching, than Power and wars. But, nobody has heard from the isolated hermit in ages.

The Thes'thannu stargate connects directly to Noah's Sanctuary, but what will happen on the other side?