You caught me, Darkhelmet. 'A. Penrose' is indeed, who you think. I'm glad the doings of TB5 are of interest. She'll be back soon. And thanks, I'mpeckable, Tikatu, Darkhelmet, and Elven Monarch, for the comments.
29
World Unity Complex, Commercial Center, Corridor 5A-
Virgil took a last swipe at the tunnel walls with his plasma cutter. The back-blasted heat and stench were unpleasant, but Brains' inhaler took some of the edge off. Hackenbacker had developed the stuff for him after the San Francisco fire, but Virgil hadn't thought much of it, at the time. He'd stuck the protective spray in his equipment bag and promptly forgotten all about it, until faced with the searing reek of a plasma cutting torch.
The inhalant gas certainly protected him, but it smelled and felt weird, going down. Almost the same sharp, oily tang as non-stick spray. Virgil was put to mind, as he'd held the inhaler to his mouth and squeezed, of standing in the locker room showers before a game, his head covered with a towel, drenching his football jersey with cooking spray. Made him too slippery to get hold of on the field, but stank to high heaven, and so did the inhaler. Worked, though.
'Gotta remember to tell him,' Virgil instructed himself, as he cut off the torch and stood there, hunched and dripping, waiting for the glowing rocks to cool some, 'that his invention works as advertised'.
There 'd be some mighty interested fire departments, he figured. Closer to the moment, though, Gordon probably needed a dose.
A double-handful of impatience later, Virgil was able to step from the dully radiating passage. And there, the plan fell apart. The corridor beyond was quite empty. There was a mound of rubble on the floor, as though something kind of small had been buried there... but no Gordon. No plasma cutter, either, which meant that he'd gone off on purpose... maybe.
All at once terribly worried, Virgil helped Lady Penelope out of the tunnel, and Parker, then hit his wrist comm.
"Gordon! Everything okay? Where are you?"
His brother's face appeared on the screen an instant later, dusty and sweat-streaked, with a big bruise planting its vivid colors on the side of his forehead.
"Relax, Virgil. I'm fine! I thought...," he got this expression on his face, like he expected to be laughed at, and knew he deserved it. ".. This is goin' t' sound truly mental..., but I thought I heard a dog. It sounded t' be rather close, so I thought I'd just head off an' check, then be back before you..."
"A dog?"
"Well, in a manner of speaking, yes. Or, so I thought."
Virgil stared into the tiny screen, and his younger brother's shifty, embarrassed eyes, with utter, jaw-dropped disbelief.
"Lemme get this straight; you're out by yourself, against orders, in an unstable tunnel .427 miles underground... chasing a dog?"
"Not chasing, exactly, and not just a dog, as such. I mean t' say... dogs normally stick close by their folk, don't they? I thought I might find someone in need of help."
Right. Someone with four legs. Gordon might not be any good at all with large animals, but he was a sucker for small ones, and children.
"Listen," Virgil ordered, not sure whether he wanted to laugh at the kid, or put his red head straight through a wall. "Don't move! Stay alert, keep the cutter and your sidearm handy, and wait for Penny and me. We're coming to get you."
It might have been just his imagination, but Virgil could have sworn that his brother looked slightly panicky, just then.
"Lady P's with you?" He enquired, in a suddenly lowered voice.
"Yeah. She and 'the Driver' joined up about an hour ago, by Mr. Tracy's office. Scared the hell out of me for a second, too. But what's that got to do with how much trouble you're in?"
Before Gordon could reply, the beautiful British aristocrat (not blonde, just now; she'd dyed her long hair a pale, sun-streaked brown) put a hand to Virgil's arm.
"Please," she began quietly, her blue eyes wide and worried, "If there is time, Virgil... my secretary and office staff are trapped nearby. I'd wondered... if it wouldn't take you away from the main effort for too terribly long... if you mightn't be a dear, and help me to effect their release? They're quite frightened."
She tried for a smile, but it came out pale and damp as the sun through dense fog. Obviously, she was upset.
Where Virgil came from, you didn't say no to a lady in distress. After all, he reasoned, they were here to help, and Penny's staff were just as important as the other victims. Over the comm, he said,
"Okay, Kiddo; change of plans. I'm sending the Driver your way...," here, Virgil glanced over at the black-clad ruffian, who gave him a single, brisk nod. "...to keep you partnered up and out of trouble. I know I'm a fine one to talk about following orders, but... dammit, follow orders! Scott said 'stay together'."
"Right. Sorry. Wasn't thinkin'. Won't happen again."
Uh-huh. Sure. Virgil sighed gustily.
"Just stay put, and wait for help, Hotshot. You haven't got lives to throw away like a cat."
And he wished, just then, that he could reach through the glass and somehow pluck his brother to safety. Something about this entire situation had started to feel terribly, perilously wrong. He'd always been able to sense a storm coming.
"I told you, I'll be fine, Virgil. Here I'll sit, not stirrin' a hair, takin' in the scenic wonders, till my damn nursemaid turns up!"
Virgil had to grin a little, at the teenaged boy's aggrieved tone.
"Shut up, and stay safe, Kiddo. I gotta go."
Parker took his leave of Lady Penelope, set the correct frequency on his comm unit, then melted swiftly and silently away. In the ruby-lit gloom, Virgil turned to the worried young noblewoman.
"Let's go get 'em out," he said, squashing down his own pile of worries. "Lead the way."
Corridor 3G-
Gordon slumped a bit, more relieved than he cared to admit. Not that he didn't like Lady Penelope, precisely... Just that she made him terribly uncomfortable. He'd nearly accepted the American citizenship and sudden wealth bits... that was fairly well nailed down... the new parentage was a bit of a stretch, a touch difficult, but he rather thought he was making progress there, as well. With Lady Penelope, though... It was another matter, one of learning to ignore their former difference in status. She was gentry, for one thing, heir to estate, land and title, with ancestresses who'd warmed the beds of many a lonely monarch.
(...and wasn't that sound exactly like a small dog, barking as though it had something cornered?)
Too, there was his accent, which Gordon knew to be working class, and decidedly Midlands in origin. Her softly cultured tones made him sound common as coal.
(...definitely a dog. Poor beast seemed positively frantic.)
Almost unconsciously, Gordon began moving again. The animal really did seem close, and Parker could find him as well fifty feet further down the corridor, as here. He might have called Thunderbird Five for directions, but didn't want a second lecture.
The corridor, which had been relatively untouched past the first cave in, soon began to roughen. Great, tilted slabs of rock pushed up through expensive wool carpeting, and narrow cracks mazed the walls. Framed artworks littered the floor, while glass crunched underfoot like snow. All around him, dust swirled, unsettled as a restless soul. Worse, every so often the stone itself gave a slow, creaking groan, as though the mountain were shifting about on its haunches, seeking a more comfortable position. And every time it did so, the dog's barking converted to a terrified howl.
Gordon picked up his pace. It wasn't only that the animal was in danger, but that it couldn't comprehend what was happening, or why. Like the little lass in the plane... Emma. Hell of a way to go, that; wondering all along why the folk you loved didn't come to save you. Well, Emma hadn't died, and neither, if he could help it, would the dog.
Angles, broken surfaces and T-junctions played hell with the echoes, but at last he turned the right corner. There was the dog, a small, spotted terrier... And, worse luck, another damn cave-in.
The animal had been digging furiously at the rubbled wall, alternately barking and whining. Spotting Gordon, it raced up the hall toward him in a rattle of claws and tags, yipping a wild, high-pitched plea. Then, it returned to the wall, barked once, dug a bit more, whirled, and went back to Gordon. As clearly as a dog could, this one was begging assistance.
Gordon followed the little animal to the cave in. It raised itself up on hind legs, forepaws against shattered stone, and began whining.
"Steady on," he told the dog (a little lad, it was), "You'll get nothin' accomplished with hysterics."
Now it had pushed its pointed little nose into a crevice, and was snuffing at something further within. Time to call for help, whatever the resulting unpleasantness. (He could always blame his behavior on that knock he'd taken, back at the beach...)
"Thunderbird Five, from bloody Tartarus. You there..., 'John'?"
Once more, his brother's image appeared; less stiff, this time, with occasional posture shifts, and varying eye contact.
"Thunderbird Five. Go ahead, Tartarus."
Gordon smiled at the slightly sardonic note in his counterfeit brother's voice. Better.
"John, I've arrived at a second rock-fall. There might be people trapped behind. Would you be able t'..."
"Initiating corridor scan. Scanning corridor. Scan completed."
Then again, maybe not. Gordon would have corrected the computer's phrasing, but the results of the scan stopped him cold.
"Results: negative. Scan detects the organic residue of two individuals. No metabolic processes detected." The false John paused in his cold assessment, then added, "It is considered appropriate, at this moment, to express regret?"
The spotted dog had resumed digging, more confidently now, as thought the mere presence of a human helper made everything right again. There was no way to explain, of course.
Then, three things happened at once:
...with a cannon-shot report, a sudden, jagged crack appeared in the ceiling.
...his brother's image announced,
"There is imminent danger of further collapse, Gordon Tracy. Depart the area at once, or risk cessation."
...and the dog's barking took on a note of desperate terror.
Gordon scooped the little fellow up, and began to run. There was a noise so loud, he felt it clear through, a cross between a deep groan, and a tremendous bellow. Chunks of stone, some seeming big as Volkswagens, detached from the roof and crashed around him like enormous hammers. The ground shook underfoot, and the crack, like horizontal black lightning, shot away forward, tearing the hallway apart.
He ran on without thinking (too scared to, really), hurtling, ducking, spinning aside. At one point, there was a woman. He thrust out an arm without slowing down, tried to yank her along, but she jerked free, took another path.
Sand and rocks pelted him. Something large struck him between the shoulder blades, and he crashed to his knees, but managed to throw himself forward. The objects striking didn't hurt, precisely.
(Correct position- tucked over the dog, head down, arms and legs in, hands protecting back of the neck.)
Just painless, tingling flashes punctuating his rather jumbled 'Our Father', and 'Hail Mary'.
Then, it stopped. Just... no more.
Like fading thunder, the shaking died away. His ears rang and beat with sudden, violent silence. There was sand in his mouth, again, and blood. Still alive..., and someone was nuzzling his face in the dark.
Since he very much doubted that there were many swimsuit models who'd be driven to such behavior... here, at least... Gordon was forced to assume it was the dog.
Just his luck. It was turning out to one hell of a ... two days now, was it? He pushed himself up on his arms as the red emergency lanterns flickered back on.
"Never better, thanks," Gordon informed the world in general, and the dog in particular. He gathered himself into a wobbly sitting position, and took careful stock.
A short roll call later (all body parts present and accounted for, if a bit worse for wear) Gordon called in to his brothers and Parker, then looked around for the dog. Once again, it stood before a wall. Only, this time, it neither barked, nor dug, but gave the quietest, most dejected whimper Gordon had ever heard. He went over and crouched beside the broken-hearted little lad.
It pushed its pointed nose into his hand, somehow knowing the truth, and seeking comfort.
"I'm sorry. Truly. There's nothing more t' be done for them, lad... Scout, that is." (He'd looked at its bone-shaped metal tag, while caressing the small animal's head.) "Come on, then. Best be goin'."
There was a woman out there, and after all this, she might be in need of an assist.
The crouch had been a bad idea. Gordon hurt all over, and it was very difficult to rise again. When he'd managed the feat, more or less hauling himself up along the cracked wall, the little dog followed. Together, they headed away from the giant rock fall that had nearly killed them both.