Apologies for the length, and the questionable Spanish. It's the only language I spoke until age 4, but 4-year olds aren't very grammatical.
19
-Pass the word, from gun to gun, this will be a firing run.-
The situation in Jeff's plushly decorated office was already chaotic when the kids arrived. Gordon had been patched up by a Tahitian ambulance crew, but he'd still had to hand the stick to Alan once they were off the ground and covered by Shadowbot. He'd slept most of the way home, troubled by dreams of terrified children and rising, bloodied waters.
At the office, Gordon took a few painkillers, trying to find a position to rest his head that didn't leave it feeling like a football kicked back into play by some embittered and vengeful goalie. He barely noticed Alan rushing forward, waving his hands about and shouting; but TinTin did.
Jeff, Scott and Virgil, Cindy Taylor, Brains and Kyrano all turned to look as Alan pelted up, bursting with news.
"Guys, you won't believe what happened today!"
He was going to tell, she realized; was going to announce to everyone what had happened to their attackers on the beach. And then..., they'd hate her and the illegitimate power she barely knew how to control. The mental blocks cracked again, like the great, heavy lid on a searing eye. Scarcely aware of what she did, the girl reached out, figuratively drawing her 'fingers' through the part of Alan's mind responsible for sleep. Within three steps, he was yawning mightily and reeling toward the fire-side couch, muttering,
"It... was... so weird..."
He dropped to the cushions an instant later, felled like a tranquilized ox. Mildly concerned, Scott started forward, but the alert siren cut him off in mid-step, its shrill, keening wail punctuated by strobe-like flashes.
Scott pivoted, the younger boy entirely forgotten. He stalked back to the desk as Jeff keyed on the video monitor, displaying a scene from hell.
Everyone but Alan stood rooted to their places, shocked speechless by the images flashing across the screen from WNN- Espana. Some sort of big, dark cargo jet (a modified C-12 Titan, maybe) swept into the frame from the left, cutting toward what could only be the World Unity Complex. It was flying dangerously low, evading radar. And... was that a '2' painted on the side? Why would anyone try to disguise a warplane as a Thunderbird?
As the team looked on, utterly bewildered, the mock Thunderbird executed a sudden hard bank at less than half a mile from the U.C.'s glittering web. Scott reacted first, understanding the point of the maneuver better than anyone else present.
"Look out!" He warned uselessly, as wave after wave of missiles, launched in groups of three, thundered away from the plane. Blossoms of flame shook mountainside and trestle alike, savaging beauty the way a stupid thug with a handful of rocks might shatter a stained-glass window.
A reporter's high-pitched voice cut in, describing the terrible events in loud, frantic Spanish.
"... las sospechas, 'Rescue International', asi los mataron mas que dos mil personas!"
As the Unity Complex collapsed before their horrified eyes, trapping and injuring thousands, the reason for the disguised plane came terribly clear. Scott rounded on his father.
"Dad, I'm on my w..."
"No."
That single word, like the sharp stroke of an ax, cut cleanly through all the half-formed plans and hasty conjectures. Startled, Scott back-stepped.
"But, Dad..., they need us out there! There's no way in hell the regular disaster crews can cope with this!"
"I said, no, Scott! Nobody launches! Didn't you hear your brother?"
A sudden, jabbing forefinger indicated John's portrait comm.
"Someone is trying to force us into a fight! It's a trap, a frame-up! If you do as they expect and rush to the scene, you'll be arrested, or shot."
Jeff's brown eyes snapped, his brows drawing together over a tense and worried scowl.
"Stand down, Mister, and I mean now! We have people working for us at the highest levels. Give them a chance to straighten this mess out, and then we'll go in, but not before. Understood?"
It was a contest of wills, father against son, and a very near thing. In the end, ingrained habit and military training were all that kept Scott from heading off. Breathing heavily, fists clenched at his sides, he waited a full minute before responding,
"Understood, Sir..., but all the blood spilled while we delay action is on all our hands, forever."
Too stressed to care how he sounded, Jeff pointed to a chair.
"Sit down!" He commanded.
Scott reddened, but refused to budge.
Gordon attended to all this for a few moments, then noticed a sudden absence, the barest movement of a hangar access door. Virgil.
Not giving himself time to think, the red-haired boy backed swiftly away from the gathering storm clouds, then sped through the door in his brother's wake.
"Virgil!" He caught up with the big pilot at Thunderbird 2's boarding gantry, where Virgil was tripping the circuit breakers that powered the hangar alarm system. "What're y' doin' ?"
He'd arrived out of breath and achy, each rapid, jarring step another brick flung at the back of his throbbing head. Virgil shot him a bleak look, at once baffled, hurt and angry. Then, turning, he returned to his task.
"I'm launching," he replied in a low, hoarse whisper. "Those people need help, and I'm going."
Gordon found himself assisting with the breakers, then disabling the monitor-room override system the old-fashioned way; by removing a cover panel and jerking out half the wires. All at once, a swarm of airborne mini-robots coalesced around the two brothers, seeming to materialize from clear air. They scanned the pair thoroughly, verifying their identities many times over. It was rank vandalism, but as family was doing it, the security robots had no authority to interfere, or report.
"Did y' not hear father?" Gordon persisted, following Virgil across the ringing gantry. "It's a bloody trap. They'll be waitin' t' arrest you the instant you touch down!"
"Gordon," Virgil had paused by the forward access hatch, his hand on 2's dark green, swelling hull. "I don't expect you to understand. They didn't pick you. They picked me... and her... to frame for this, and I'm not having it." His hand stroked the curving metal, as though he were trying to calm a skittish horse.
"I won't have people being afraid of her, Gordon, or let people die thinking we killed them. I've got to go."
And Virgil shifted his gaze again, the question in his eyes, rather than his words. Gordon nodded.
"Right, then. Let's be off."
At once grateful, and hesitant (it was no small thing he was planning), his older brother objected,
"We'll probably get caught, Kiddo."
"Not without makin' a damn fine match of it," Gordon replied firmly. "An' not before doin' our jobs."
Forgetting all about his younger brother's head wound (Gordon didn't), Virgil hauled him in for a swift, rough hug.
"Right. Good to go. We'll be needing the Mole, then, the plasma cutters, and about a ton of good luck."
Back at the office:
Jeff had been on the phone, speaking in low, urgent tones on one of the secure lines, when the launch alert came. Slamming shut the mouthpiece, he whipped around to face the monitor. Nothing. No data or images came up, just a rapid, beeping flash on his desk panel indicating that one of the 'Birds was taking flight.
"What's going on here? Where's Virgil?" Then, as the elder Tracy realized what had happened, "Give me an outside camera shot. The cliff side. Hurry!"
TinTin complied, her slim fingers flying over the tech console. An outside shot appeared just in time to reveal Thunderbird 2's huge, blunt nose emerging from the open cliff face. In the soft, buttery gleam of flood lights and runway beacons, she seemed to ripple with muscle like a stalking cat.
"Dammit!" Jeff growled, slamming his hands down on the desk top. "Stop the launch! Override!"
TinTin tried, but the signal from console to hangar had been blocked, somehow.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Tracy, but I can't!"
"Never mind," he snapped, reaching across the anxious girl to hit a particular comm button.
"Virgil! I know you can hear me! Stop, now, and return to my office, immediately. Virgil, answer me!"
No response. Thunderbird 2 and her pilot were as deaf and unyielding as stone gods. As the palm trees swayed gracefully away, and the enormous cargo lifter rumbled out to her launch ramp, Scott came to stand beside his father.
"He's not alone," the dark-haired young man said, quietly. While his father's worried eyes searched the room, he added, "Gordon's missing, too."
Jeff's hands clenched into fists on the comm panel. Then, broad shoulders slumping, head down, he replied,
"Go after your brothers, Scott. Bring them back, if you can. If not... do whatever you can to help, and... for the love of Heaven... be careful."
Already turning, the tall fighter pilot nodded.
"Yes, Sir. On my way."
Halfway to the access door, Cindy seized him tight, then tried to shake him. Not a very effective maneuver, for he out-massed her considerably.
"Come back safe, damn you! I've got a plan of my own to help you guys out, but you've got to promise that you'll..."
A swift kiss silenced her.
"Run it past dad first, Hon, and be gentle. He's just had his butt handed to him by Virgil." And then, for the first time, "I love you. Gotta go."
He was through the door by the time Cindy recovered enough to whisper,
"Okay..., I love you, too."
People got married for all sorts of reasons, in her experience. Sometimes for sex, sometimes for money, sometimes just because they were tired of being alone, or wanted to make headlines. Not Scott Tracy, though. He was the genuine article, and, for some reason, this both touched and worried her.
"Mr. Tracy...?" She ventured, hurrying back over to where Jeff sat staring at the monitor, typing commands onto a keyboard while holding a whispered argument with someone over his cell phone.
He looked up, hardly managing to conceal his irritation.
"Miss Taylor," he growled, "I don't mean to be rude, but..."
She lifted a hand, feeling more like a news hound at a press conference than a bride-to-be addressing the family patriarch.
"Hear me out, please, Mr. Tracy. I've got an idea, but I need a little help. The big problem here, and the reason something like that...," she stabbed a finger at the wall comm, where footage of the attack played over and over again to increasingly hostile narration, "...could be taken seriously, is because of all this obsessive secrecy. Your own paranoia just leaped up and bit you on the ass, Sir."
Jeff cut off the call, and stopped typing. Getting to his feet, he said,
"Miss Taylor, I don't have the time or inclination to sit around fielding insults. I am not responsible for what's happened to WorldGov headquarters."
"Nobody said you were! Calm down, and listen. I said that your secrecy was a big part of the problem. If almost no one knows what Thunderbird 2 really looks like, this kind of mud is going to stick. What you need is a way to make yourselves seen and heard, without compromising security. You with me, so far?"
Cautiously, Jeff nodded, sitting back in his leather seat, with steepled fingers. She had his attention. Pushing the dark hair from her face, Cindy continued.
"If I can set up someplace, maybe in one of the hangars, and you can broadcast a signal for me to the San Francisco affiliate, I can help get the word out about what's really going on. Jake 'll air it... I think. Whether he believes me, or not, it's news, and it'll be a station exclusive. What do you think?"
Jeff looked over at Brains. The engineer fidgeted nervously with his broken glasses. They'd fallen off the night stand, again, and got stepped on.
"It might w-work, Mr. ah..., Mr. Tracy. I c- can set up an untraceable b- broadcast, w- with M -Miss Taylor reporting, to, ah... to clear th- things up. I h- have to agree with th- the young lady, S- Sir. If w- we remain silent, th- the, ah... the lies will only s- spread, and we'll look even more s- suspicious."
Jeff's mouth flattened out. He ran a hand through his grey hair, then nodded, once.
"Very well. It's a go. You have my permission to use basic outline diagrams of all the 'Birds... but be careful what you say. We still don't know who's behind these attacks, and at this point, too much information is as dangerous as too little."
Hackenbacker nodded seriously, shaggy brown head bobbing comically on his skinny neck.
"W- we'll keep it within, ah... within parameters, Mr. Tracy. I p- promise you."
"Right," Jeff gave the mussed and rumpled scientist a bleak smile. "Do what you can, Brains." Then, turning to regard Cindy,
"I appreciate your help, Miss Taylor. Looks like you've found a way to boost your career and make yourself an asset to the organization."
Cindy gave him a sugar-bright, utterly false smile. Thinking 'Jerk!' she turned and followed Brains out of the room.
Jeff returned to his phone, monitor and keyboard, raising his voice briefly to call out,
"Kyrano, check to see that Mother and Jenny are all right; they might have been watching the news... and somebody wake Alan up!"
Over the Moon:
The shaking stopped when they shot through the Hangar doors and out into space, carried away from the surface by inertia, and a few last burns. The flight deck (roughly cylindrical, around 21 feet in length, and studded with instrumentation where it wasn't jammed with seats, controls and hang straps) fell into a sort of relieved, wobbly silence. Then,
"Yes, sir!" Pete exulted, grinning broadly, "that was some damn fine flying!" Anything that didn't actually kill them, at this point, seemed like a reason to celebrate. "Guess I'd better call Houston and tell them to warm up another crock of beans."
The fine mood didn't last very long. One of the video monitors lit up, automatically triggered by an emergency broadcast from a nearby communications satellite. Silence fell, unbroken by anything but the droning news feed, the hum and click of machinery, and the fitful buzz of warning lights.
"God Almighty...!" Roger breathed, hauling himself forward with his good arm. The others, already helmetless and ungloved, gathered round the view screen to stare.
Kim looked from Linda, to Pete, then over at Roger, who'd gone grey as volcanic ash.
"This... is not a show?" She ventured, her characteristic slight frown turning puzzled. "This is true?"
Linda nodded slowly, hand clamped to her mouth as though she were going to be ill. Like some dreadful nightmare, what seemed to be Thunderbird 2 dove across the screen and shot apart the U.C. Repeated many times, the strident, accusing words of a journalist...
'...unprovoked attack by International Rescue..,' fell like hammer blows.
Pete looked over at John Tracy, torn with black doubt, and confusion.
Why had he brought a gun? Known precisely what hadhappened to Section C?
For his own part, John was unreadable, his beautiful face cold and remote.
"Oh, my God..., the Honor Guard!" Roger whispered brokenly. He'd done a stint on the President's elite Marine squad, and still had friends there.
"The president!" Linda interjected. "Was she there? Does anyone know?"
Nobody did. In point of fact, no one knew anything, including what they were to do next. Then came the faintly broadcast threat, hissing with static and malice:
"The City in the Sky and the Jewel of the Sea shall fall, and the Chariot of Man's Pride be brought down with fire, raining death on all who worship the Machine. Earth will once more be free!"
It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what was meant by 'The Chariot of Man's Pride', but 'Jewel of the Sea'...
"Alpha," John murmured, hardly aware that he was speaking, "They'll go after the Sea Base, next."
Pete's expression was bleak with suspicion as he demanded,
"How do you figure?"
The pilot glanced over, saying bitterly,
"Because it's beautiful, and unnatural. Like Endurance. Mankind doesn't belong down there, or up here... so it's got to be destroyed."
Then, quite evenly,
"Pete, we're screwed. This configuration wasn't designed for Earth. Even with all the engine problems, we'd be safer going on to Mars than trying to return. We're sitting on a giant anti-matter reactor. If we're shot down..."
The mission commander closed his eyes, briefly, then reopened them.
"World War III, all over again," he finished quietly. "And Houston hasn't got anything for us, either. All I'm getting is 'stand by'."
He looked around at his crew, all of them waiting for him to come up with the answers. Well... that's why he earned the 'big bucks', right? To make the damn decisions? Resolutely, Pete unwrapped a stick of Juicy Fruit. Brain food. All at once, he said briskly,
"Okay, it's up to us. Linda, Kim, check out the supplies. I want to know exactly what we've got. I'm talking basic survival stuff; food, water, medicine, O2. What, and how much. Go."
They went. He turned his attention to the Marine, who still seemed to be in shock, staring at the government newscast.
"Thorpe, turn that shit off, and snap out of it. I need you firing on all cylinders, Marine."
"Yeah, Pete... sorry." Roger pushed himself high enough to reach the controls with a brief tap to the pilot's seat. The view screen cut off, and Roger pulled himself together.
"Fire away. What d' you need me to do?"
He wasn't over it, but he was trying, and that would have to be enough.
"Get down to section C, run a diagnostic, and repair the damage. Fast and dirty, chewing-gum-and-baling-wire field job..., whatever it takes, so long as it'll hold up. Got it?"
"Yes, Sir, Skipper. I'm on it."
Like most Marines, Captain Thorpe appreciated useful work, and a strong commander. Darting through the filtered air with quick shoves from his uninjured arm, and occasional light kicks to furniture and padded walls, he shot off to section C. One-armed or not, he'd get the job done.
Then it was just Pete and John.
"Three flight plans, Tracy; Mars, far-side lunar parking orbit, and... if all else fails... a spot on Earth where we have some prayer of landing, without taking out half a city if there's a 'malfunction'."
He waited, poised for anything, but John merely nodded, and set to work. Hoping like hell that Tracy's distracted air and lack of response didn't mean the worst... that the young pilot (whom he'd suspected for some time was a member of International Rescue) wasn't somehow in on all this... Pete made another attempt to get some answers from Mission Control.
A little over an hour later, the crew met again, drifting back to the flight deck to regroup and debrief. Pete spoke first, after everyone had arranged themselves in whatever orientation took their fancy.
"Okay, folks," he began, chewing furiously away at his wad of gum, "the news from Houston is: there is no news. I'm getting the goddam runaround, while they try to come up with a plan. Well, I aim to beat 'em to the punch. Ladies, how 're the supplies shaping up? Have we got enough to reach Mars?"
Floating sideways, Dr. Kim's gentle nod set her to bobbing slightly in mid air. Without the downward pull of gravity, her face was a touch puffy (but so was everyone else's), and her black hair fanned out behind the elastic band like a peacock's tail.
"There is just enough, Pete," she said, "If three of us are suspended for the flight."
"Two can make it, if they eat and drink sparingly. After that, what's been dropped at the landing site will tide us over," Linda clarified, her tone brisk and business-like. Her brown, wavy hair might have turned into modern art, but the doctor's attitude was as professional as ever.
"The other three will need to sleep off the trip in cryogenic suspension. Or... four of us could go down, while someone stays awake to mind the store and wait for rescue, Pete. Just another option."
"Thanks. At this juncture, I'm considering ideas from all over the field and out in the bleachers. Parking lot 'll be next. Thorpe, how 're we looking?"
"Replaced what I could, and patched what I couldn't," Roger responded, wincing a little as an attempted shrug jarred his injured arm. The anesthetic was wearing off.
"It's a mess down there, Skipper. She still won't win any beauty contests, but she's FMC." (meaning 'Fully Mission Capable')
He looked haggard, though, and nearly as distracted as Tracy, who kept glancing down at his watch. Checking the time? For what, Pete wondered. What was he waiting for?
"Tracy," McCord snapped, more sternly than he'd meant to, "Care to join us?"
"I'm listening."
The last time Tracy had got this withdrawn, about three weeks prior to launch, Pete had taken him out to the shore for a long conversation, and a game of catch. You did more soul-searching than most people supposed, tossing and fielding a baseball.
"Good. So, stop calculating, and give us the skinny on the flight plans. We still go for Mars?"
A legitimate question, as they were off course, and early. But John nodded.
"It can be done. I've already worked the figures. It'll mean a couple extra orbits to line up with Argyre, is all."
"Earth?"
A strange expression flickered briefly in the pilot's violet eyes. He seemed torn. Very quietly, Tracy repeated,
"Not advisable in our current situation, Pete. Even if we weren't actively being targeted, Endurance can't handle that kind of gravity in this configuration. She'll break up, and returning to IMS would be nearly as hazardous. Mars, or thefar side, from where I'm sitting."
"Well...," Pete replied, scratching his scalp, "you play the hand you're dealt, folks. Now: I want a decision before Houston calls back, and I want it unanimous, 'cause we're in this together, start to finish. Mars, or lunar orbit? Go, or hide out? What's it gonna be?"
He wasn't particularly surprised when everyone, even Tracy, voted go. After all, might as well do the job they'd set out to, while the number-crunchers figured things out, Earth-side.
Pete gave them a quick smile.
"Momma didn't raise no cowards. I'll call Houston and Riley, and tell them what we've decided. Tracy, plug in the numbers. Linda, get the freezer bags ready."
Bennet pursed her lips a bit at his choice of words, but she nodded, just the same.
"I'll need to run bio-scans to adjust the cryotube settings, Pete. Who's going under?"
"Thorpe, Kim... and Tracy."
Linda frowned, genuinely startled. John paused in his data entry to look over, but there was nothing, absolutely nothing, in his manner or bearing to ease the mission commander's trouble. Pete would have given an awful lot just then for a baseball, a couple of battered gloves, and a quiet stretch of beach.
"Pete... are you sure?" Dr. Bennett probed, honest concern in her brown eyes. "The pilot..."
"...Can be defrosted in plenty of time to bring us in. Once the numbers are plugged into the computer, the ship 'll fly herself. Medical emergencies, on the other hand, are unpredictable, and I'd rather not have to deal with a bunch of refrigerator mummies without a doctor standing by."
Not the entire truth, but close enough to table the subject.
At last, with everything set, and Houston in agreement, the crew strapped in again. Three swift orbits and a couple of short burns got them oriented properly, and then Endurance's heart and soul, her P-bar engine, was fired.
At a dual command from Pete and John, the most minute and transitory of holes opened in the magnetic containment bottle. A stream of antiprotons tore free of their prison, entering the linear accelerator portion of the engine, where they were whipped to near light-speed, and collided with an equal number of protons. The resulting matter-antimatter annihilation liberated energies not seen since the big bang.
Endurance was blasted for Mars at speeds that flirted shamelessly with ruin. In truth, there wasn't a faster ship in the solar system, and without their survival suits, the acceleration would have killed them all. None of the experimental animals survived, except for a hardy white rat they nicknamed 'Lucky', and a pair of Siamese fighting fish.
It wasn't until Endurance had settled into a constant (if still mind-bending) speed, that Linda placed her crew mates in suspended animation.
The process was complicated. Back in the ship's cramped med lab, John, Kim Cho and Roger stripped halfway out of their survival suits for a thorough bio-scan. Then, while the data were being entered, the three astronauts were triple dosed with a powerful cryoprotectant.
There was an oraldose, then a combination intravenous shot and sedative, with what surely had to be one of the largest needles John had ever seen. Then came the really fun part, with an even bigger needle; the intramuscular injection.
"Okay," Linda told him, pinching up a fold of skin at his hip, "Grab hold of something, John, and try to relax."
The tranquilizer has started working already, but not so much that he couldn't annoy the doctor. Raising an eyebrow, he said,
"I don't even get a kiss, first?"
Linda brandished the giant needle at him. Unlike John, she wasn't experiencing a bloodstream full of chemical happiness.
"Sunshine, I can stick this thing pretty nearly anywhere. Do you really want to pull my chain, right now? Didn't think so. Now, shut up, get your mind out of the gutter, and take your medicine like a man!"
John decided right there that she moonlighted as a veterinarian, and had brought all her damn livestock equipment along. He wouldn't have been at all surprised had that monster needle emerged through his abdominal wall. Somehow, 'ouch' didn't seem to quite cover it.
When he was thoroughly dosed, and growing rather queasy, Linda maneuvered him over to a wall harness and helped him strap in.
"All right," she said, bracing herself against the refrigerator to pat John's shoulder. "It'll take awhile for this stuff to work its way through, and it's got to get everywhere, even past the blood-brain barrier. You're going to feel a little sick and sleepy, but trust me, it's worth it. Without the anti-freeze, ice-crystals will rupture your cells like water balloons. I'll be back to check on you in fifteen minutes."
And with that, and another carefully braced pat, Linda handed herself out through the main hatch.
Roger and Kim Cho floated nearby in harnesses of their own, barely conscious. The Marine had reached out to give her hand a squeeze, and they'd simply kept hold. John found himself thinking blurrily of Penny, wondering if she was safe. Then it became too hard to think, so he stopped trying.
Sometime later (there was a burning at his wrist that was important, but he'd forgotten why), he jerked slightly awake. Someone held a bag to his face for him to be sick in. There were voices, and lights; a certain amount of jerking around, and he was moved, drifting down stream as helpless as a fallen leaf. At last, pushed flat against a padded surface of some kind, he lost the struggle for consciousness.
The thing about suspended animation was, it resembled freezing to death, without the trouble of actually dying. Permeated through and through with a dense, sugary 'antifreeze', the subject's body could be lowered to negative ten degrees Celsius and held there for years, halting non-essential body functions, and lowering others to the point of indetectability.
There was a certain element of risk, of course. Machinery sometimes failed, and not everyone was able to tolerate the cryoprotectant shots. Sometimes, people died. But there was another, more insidious, threat.
Just as when a person froze to death, the long sleep of suspended animation was filled with comfortable illusion. You felt warm, and so very peaceful. Waves of euphoria hit that were terribly difficult to pull away from. Some people never woke up.
Linda hooked John to the cryo-tube's monitors. Noting that he'd begun fighting his way back to wakefulness, the doctor gave him another shot of sedative, watching alertly as the young pilot ceased twitching and relaxed. Before she could shut the unit (which resembled an upright tanning bed), Pete floated into the lab from the flight deck, handing himself rapidly along an overhead guide rail.
"Why don't you go finish up with Dr. Kim?" He suggested. "I'll keep an eye on Tracy till you get back."
Glancing at her watch, Linda realized that Cho was due for her final temperature set. She smiled gratefully.
"Thanks, Pete. Trying to do too much at once, I guess. I won't be a minute."
Then Bennett propelled herself across the lab, up to where Kim's tube beeped and flashed against the overhead. Pete waited a few moments. Once she was safely out of ear shot, and busy, he pulled himself down and whispered,
"Tracy...? Can you hear me?"
The answer, sluggish and delayed, was barely audible.
"Mm-hmm..."
"Do you know who I am?"
"Sure... s' Pete."
So far, so good. The mission commander risked a glance at Linda. Still occupied. Taking a deep breath, and praying hard that the young man he'd flown with and trusted wouldn't fail the test, McCord asked another question.
"Tracy, did I.R. destroy the Unity Complex?"
"No..." Spoken drunkenly. "We wouldn'... do 'nthing like that."
We? He'd thought right, then. Deeply relieved, but still badly in need of answers, Pete continued.
"Do you know who did it?"
" 'S... tryin' to find out."
...And been interrupted, taken out of the fight, because his commander lost faith. Pete started to say something further, but the sudden movement of a monitor camera caught his eye. It had swung silently around to face him, its blinking red light aimed as squarely as a sniper's laser.
McCord had the sudden, uncomfortable sensation that he was being stared at. Someone... something... didn't seem to like this line of questioning. The mission commander nodded in what he very much hoped was a non-threatening manner. John Tracy, it seemed, had a kick-ass guardian angel.
Keeping one eye on the camera, which followed his every move with tiny adjustments of its own, he leaned down far enough to say,
"I'm sorry, buddy. Sorry I ever doubted. Won't happen again. You sleep it off, and we'll see you in three weeks."
John didn't hear him. He heard and felt nothing at all as the lid boomed shut and chilly fog filled the narrow box.