11
The beautiful city hadsurvived to greet the sun. Fog melted away like a fading nightmare, revealing the brawny Thames with its elegant bridges, the clock tower and palace, and the many grand cathedrals through which London raised its eyes to Heaven.
John found himself too tired to appreciate the scenery, however. At the moment, sunshine rainbow-splintered off mullioned windows only made him wish for dark glasses.
When he'd overseen the return of "Divers 1 and 2" to Thunderbird 4,then arranged a swift electronic patch-up of Thunderbird 2's comm system, he called up his computer. In a weary voice, he said,
"5, form holographic image and proceed with communications. Alert me if anything serious comes up..., and let Brains know he has a few bugs to work out with that goddam foam of his."
As always, she was prompt:
"Hologram initiated, John Tracy. Communication established with Island Base and Thunderbirds 2 and 4. Engineer requests quantification of denaturing agent's effectiveness."
The foam's practicality and usefulness?
"Seventh level of 'hell, no,' " he replied, watching as an image of himself appeared on the comm screen; perfectly pressed and razor creased, calm and unruffled.
John ran a hand through his silver-blond hair, smiling a little at the contrast between Thunderbird 5's image and the genuine, somewhat rumpled and bleary, article. He got to his feet, and received a sudden soft kiss upon the cheek from Penelope.
"Thank you," she whispered, her breath tickling warm against his skin, "for saving my city."
In the rising light of dawn, with her golden hair lit along each strand by the sun, and her lips slightly parted, she looked much as she had when he'd last gotten up to leave her; tender, careless, tipsy with spent passion. Of all the things he might have said,
"You're welcome," was all that emerged. Her hand was very close to his on the control panel, as she added,
"I find myself deeply regretting the things I said to you, last night, but I trust that you are gentleman enough to put them from your thoughts."
He nodded, once, then made as if to turn away and begin shutting down Mobile Control.
"I am about to make a tremendous fool of myself," Penny informed him levelly , moving her hand to cover his. She came of a long line of Saxon noblewomen, ladies fully capable of defending castle and keep while their lords rode to battle, and she'd never lost a major skirmish. John didn't look at her, but he didn't move his hand, either, saying,
"I'm a waste of time, Penny. You deserve better."
"I've no idea what I deserve, John," Her voice, hushed enough to be private, was husky and musical. "...But I do know what I want."
This time, he met Penelope's gaze. Sixteen years before, all the light and warmth in the universe had been shut in a box, then lowered into the ground. With her, in the box, were love and play, silly songs and little kisses, a blue teddy bear that represented the missing baby... and all of John that ever really mattered.
His hand curved slightly, giving Penny's a brief squeeze. He had no idea why anyone would want what was left, but...
Head lifted, shimmering hair stirred by the breeze off the ocean, she said,
"I shall most likely repair to the island next week, for a bit of sun. Shall I expect you?"
Penelope didn't have the key to the box; no one did. But, her nearness was welcome, anyway.
"If I can."
Thunderbird 4:
A pair of swift, noisy pumps swung into action, draining the lower airlock in less than a minute. Gordon ripped his mask away as soon as the water dropped below chin level, gulping air in great, sucking gasps. Even a rebreather had its limits, and he'd pushed his about as far as it would safely go. Scott was better off, not having used as much air. His back still hurt, but it was pure heaven to breathe free, again.
As soon as he could, Gordon hobbled over to the ladder, and more or less hop-dragged himself high enough to dog open the hatch. Then it was up and through, leaving crimson splotches on the rungs with every other step. Once in the cockpit he turned to give Scott a hand up.
They got in, wobbly and wounded, then collapsed a moment on the black rubber deck. Staring at the overhead, Scott gave his brother's shoulder an exhausted pat, saying,
"When we... get back..., I want a 300-word essay... 'Ten things... I'll never do again... on a salvage... dive.'"
Gordon, who normally wrote only when forced, looked over.
"You're kiddin'!"
"Nope. Keep whining..., and I'll make it five hundred. Come on..., let's see about that foot."
Raiding a bulkhead locker, they fetched out the first aid kit and a bottle of extra-strength Tylenol. Scott downed a few tablets, then had Gordon take a seat in the pilot's chair, and set to work.
The right heel and instep were deeply lacerated, bleeding so heavily that it was difficult to see much. Scott sprayed the wounds with antiseptic, then sealed them temporarily with Brains' newest artificial skin. Gordon, he noted, looked pale and tired, his pupils rather dilated. Brains had called the denaturing foam "mildly neurotoxic". Question was, how mild?
"You okay to drive?" He asked bluntly, putting away the first aid kit and fishing a couple of water bottles out of 4's small refrigerator.
"I'll do," his younger brother responded with a wan smile. "At least to th' rendezvous site."
Another shoulder pat.
"Good man. Let's get this Bird moving, then, and go home."
Tracy Island:
TinTin left the office, once she was certain that the boys were headed back. She was cross and out-of-sorts, worried that nothing would ever change; that Gordon, Alan and the others would go right on taking foolish risks... without her.
The lovely girl didn't want to go back to Paris, or return to her hated finishing school, either. She wanted to fly a Thunderbird, work beside her best friends to save lives. Why wouldn't anyone let her?
TinTin was halfway down the hall, unconsciously maintaining the upright, gliding carriage forced on her by L'ecole Belle Monde, when she rounded a corner and nearly collided with her father. She dipped her head at once in a graceful, swan-like bow, as much to hide a faint blush as to show respect.
Though Kyrano was her honored parent, he was also a servant in the same house where she was considered something between an adopted daughter, and a welcome guest. He always seemed to be pushing her away from him... toward the Tracys, toward elegance, and higher status. The situation became awkward, at times.
"Bon soir, Papa," she murmured, softly. And then, because her heart was too full of longing to stay in its place, "I have a question, please?"
The old servant, laden down with a heavy silver platter of tea and sandwiches, shook his head.
"My daughter," he responded, "I am occupied. Later, there will be time for questions, as you are packing once more pour La Belle France."
Any other time, she'd have accepted the mild parental brush-off. Tonight, though, she felt stubborn.
"Papa," TinTin persisted, a mulish gleam in her wide, dark eyes. "Have you asked Mr. Tracy never to allow me on missions, at all?" There, she'd said it.
Kyrano stiffened. He disliked being taken to task by his child, a young girl.
"Daughter, it is a fine thing in a woman to be intelligent, even strong, so long as she keeps these things hidden, and knows her place. An unmarried girl must be graceful, demure, obedient, and respectful. She must show proper gratitude to those above her, while remaining kind to those below... and never display temper before others." He paused a moment, lips compressing slightly under the weight of worry, and secrets. Though he hated to bring the matter up...
"That which would tend to make her over-proud, or corrupted, she must put away from herself. Not all abilities are gifts, my daughter. Some are curses."
TinTin's lower lip trembled, but she bowed her head again, and kept silent. Did no one understand?
