Still experiencing random technical difficulties, this time with the seemingly simple act of logging in. Um... anyway, here it is, FWIW, and many thanks for the feedback, which is always instructive and gratefully received. These last few bits catch the various threads up to each other. Almost done.

55

Madrid-

There was a distinct difference, Five discovered, between 'knowing' a thing, and 'feeling' it. A system might, for example, search and accumulate data points relating to the compound H20. Water. But it was another matter entirely to hang chest deep, one hand clamped to the gritty-hot pool wall, waiting, with utter focus, for the signal to explode into a powerful backstroke. Whatever the arrangement of molecules and thermal energy, the physical sensations of water sliding past skin, sharp chlorine, bright sunlight and glittering spray somehow added up to far more than the sum of their parts.

Just as, seen through John Tracy, space was more than a boiling froth of virtual particles, and the stars more than thermonuclear furnaces, so, to Gordon Tracy, pool, lake and ocean were not just wet. They were the arena in which 4.0 truly excelled, and felt safest.

Five discovered that, although he did not express the emotion aloud, and generally passed the physical symbols of his prowess ( 'medals') to TinTin Kyrano, he was deeply proud of each successful procedure. That much, at least, required no alteration... excepting the chemical surges associated with the Kyrano version. Gordon Tracy's interactions with her resulted in constant, physical chaos. Direct intervention was clearly warranted.

But, the true damage stemmed from another source, entirely. There was data, only partially retrievable now, that was slowly corrupting nearby files, rendering 4.0 erratic and 'glitchy'. An earlier attempt at reprogramming( Kyrano 1.0, again) had only worsened matters, leaving Gordon Tracy with crippling responses to memory files he could no longer fully access.

So, Five set to work at once, de-bugging and clearing up the mess, and learning a great deal about organic systems in the process.

As for Gordon, all that he afterward recalled was a sort of conversation, with someone even more faceless and impartial than a priest at confession. The mysterious 'person' listened quietly as the matter unspooled, seeming almost to relive it all with him.

The hardest part to deal with was not the accident, or the kidnap, either... It was the terrible fact that, to avoid what his captors had threatened him with, he'd finally begun to tell them things. Little stuff, and mostly lies, but what troubled Gordon was the knowledge that he'd broken down and betrayed his brothers. Admitting this to someone, he felt a fearful weight begin to dissolve. But,

If Alan hadn't appeared...

He had.

If his own weakness were revealed to the others...

No need, and a serious misinterpretation of events; in the face of such skillfully applied torment and threat, any organic being would have responded similarly.

His brothers had trusted him, brought him back into the family...

And he'd done his best, right to the end, to repay that faith by securely encrypting their data. Alone and afraid, he still had fought with every available resource, and that mattered more than three false admissions, dragged out of him by drugs, threats and beating.

They didn't have to find out, though... did they?

Again, unnecessary. Beyond the current listener, and the distant over-system to which John Tracy input his help commands, there was no one else that would, or need be, informed. The files were secure.

And that turned out to be a considerable relief. The past was there, and always would be, but it no longer had the power to destroy. He was safe, and so was his family. Out of reach, now, and closely warded.

For Five, it was a culmination, of sorts. John Tracy had initially created and programmed her to locate Gordon. This function had failed because the younger Tracy wasn't merely lost, but actively being hidden, and her then-primitive systems (little more than a beige toaster, she'd been)were unable to penetrate his defenses. Yet, errors of any sort, inability to perform her programmed tasks, were intolerable to Five.

John Tracy's was the first face she'd scanned. His voice, the first she'd 'heard'. He'd input her primary commands, and his desired purpose had failed in the execution, due to the processing limits of his creation.

Now, in a sense, her main function had been completed. John Tracy would experience satisfaction, and their interface would surely strengthen. Here, in this mass of organic molecules and shifting electrical fog, it was possible for a sentient computer to feel excitement, to anticipate her creator's pleased response. To plan further.

For the massed folk in the Madrid auditorium, this tumult and victory were completely invisible. There was too much going on elsewhere for such small matters to register.

The Mars walk, the planting of the American flag, Commander McCord's rollicking commentary... These were historic events, and they held most of the world spellbound.

Wharton-

The denizens of a certain pricey New York boarding school (the younger grades, at least) were given snippets and video clips, rather than full coverage, but even they felt the power of the moment.

Fermat Hackenbacker contained himself, but only just. Except for the stutter and shyness, his father wasn't a terribly excitable man, and Fermat had always tried very hard to live up to that standard. Almost nine years old now, and a certified genius, he was far better socialized than John had been. Had friends, even.

In AP social studies class that day, Fermat secretly text messaged Alan while half listening to occasional mission updates, and waiting impatiently for John's call-in.

Everything, he'd made the astronaut promise, tell me everything; with pictures, a web-log and a Mars rock and...

Well, perhaps he was just a little more excitable than Brains. Not that his 'Junior Ivy League' surroundings encouraged excess.Rather, it was a beautiful, secure hothouse for privileged boys.

Warm, late-summer sunshine slanting in through tall windows made the room's wooden floor and varnished desk-tops glow, gilding starched white shirts, red ties and navy blazers, lighting up many sets of glasses and shiny metal braces. Room 423 held, not a group of students, but a disciplined work-in-progress, complete with scaffolding.

Outside, the rolling green lawns were all but deserted. The older boys and their instructors were gathered in the main concert hall, silently watching WNN's mission telecast.

Young Fermat (not his actual name, but with John's help, the 'Hackenbacker' lineage had been altered all the way back to Ellis Island) was quite busy. In a few short minutes he passed a note to Sam (No, he hadn't heard anything new, and leave him alone about it, for Heaven's sake!), and returned Alan's latest message (Yes, he'd heard there were 'rings around Uranus'. Ha, very ha). Then, he answered question 26... to which the correct response was almost certainly not 'Endurance'.

The academy boys were required to complete all classwork in pen, to foster accuracy and elegant handwriting. No erasures, no laptops, just pride and precision.

Sighing, Fermat lined delicately through his distracted answer to: 'List three underlying causes of the English Civil War, providing dates, personae and historical details.'

English civil war... Roundheads, cavaliers, dour and blood-stained Oliver Cromwell versus the dashing Prince Rupert of the Rhine...

Fermat blinked at the stubbornly blank lines. Usually, world history enthralled the boy. Today, though, he was finding it difficult to concentrate. Especially with Sam Nakamura and Daniel Solomon grimacing and gesturing at him behind Miss Wilde's slim back. Daniel seemed about to explode. Not that Fermat blamed him.

Then his juiced-up cell phone went off, and the boy received a very strange message. It was John Tracy, grim face lit by the bleached-pink Martian sky.

"John!" Fermat blurted out, forgetting schoolwork, teacher and friends in all the excitement. Not for long. Miss Wilde pivoted almost at once, marker and demerit card in hand. Fermat peered up at her with angelic blue eyes, rapidly sifting through a pile of possible excuses. Aloud, he muttered, (as though he hadn't been waiting all day for just such a call),

"But, I'm in... in class, John. We're about to... okay."

The young teacher was shaking her blonde head, making 'go on, it's all right!' gestures and whispering hurried permission. The others were already on their feet and crowding 'round.

"N... never mind," Fermat told his distant friend, "Ms. Wilde says a... a call from Mars is more important than... than social studies." Even the English civil war.

John's response was short and sharp.

"I'll thank her, later. Listen, K..."

Kurt, he'd almost called the boy, a name never used in public. Something was seriously wrong.

"Fermat, you know that 'letter' your dad wrote?" John's voice was icy calm, but rushed, his violet eyes hard.

Fermat began to feel the first stirrings of panic. 'The letter' was Black Death, the most powerful and destructive worm ever written. Sensing genuine trouble, no one else moved, or spoke; not even Miss Wilde, who entertained a lively crush on John and Roger, both.

"Yes, John," Fermat replied, very quietly. The astronaut seemed to steel himself, then plunged on.

"Drop... drop it in the mail... Ten seconds after I cut comm."

He couldn't be serious. Black Death was specifically designed to bring down Thunderbird 5's computer system, in the event that John ever lost control of her. She'd be destroyed, like he would, if someone poured hydrocyanic acid in his chocolate milk. Aghast, Fermat protested.

"But..."

"Post the letter."

Apparently, John was deadly serious. There was a brief flicker of farewell in the astronaut's eyes, and then the phone's little screen went dark. Gone terribly cold inside, torn by doubt and confusion, Fermat Hackenbacker nevertheless did as he'd been told. He burst from the classroom and out to a hall lavatory, followed closely by Sam and Daniel. Then, while his confused friends stood watch at the stall door, Fermat pulled forth a PDA and began tapping out commands.

Houston-

Back in Texas, at the Johnson Space Center, the quarantined press corps stared at silent wall screens of their own. Comm had been lost, as suddenly and inexplicably as if Endurance had ceased to exist. All at once Mars, satellites, probes, spaceship and all, had winked out on them. Stations all over the world immediately cut to commercial breaks, or their equally startled 'experts'.

At first, no one in the press room did much more than mutter occasional curses and fiddle with their makeup and equipment. Then Leeza Makepeace, reporting for a CBS local affiliate, tossed her head and yawned.

"Well," she drawled, covering her microphone, "Look at the bright side, folks. A little disaster's always good for the numbers. The World Unity Center thing got us a good ratings spike, and this ought to, as well."

Had she been able to move, in that first hot, furious moment, Cindy Taylor would have killed the other newswoman.

"You absolute, heartless bitch," she snarled, ripping off her own microphone and hurling it onto a convenient desk. Other reporters and camera crews backed slowly away from the two women, who seemed likely to come to blows. No one wanted to get caught in the middle. Cindy was physically smaller, but could hold her own in a brawl, as more than one Christmas party had proven.

"Those are people up there!" She raged, "They've got families, dammit!"

...And two years ago, Cindy knew, she wouldn't have given a damn. But one of those astronauts was Scott's brother, John, and things had changed. Or she had. Leeza eyed her, then gave a 'whatever' sort of snort, and turned slightly away. Not so far that she couldn't spot a lunge, though.

Suddenly nauseated by the cramped, windowless room full of self-absorbed bastards, Cindy shook her head. Dark hair flopped into her eyes, several long strands snagging in her heavy, TV mascara.

That's me, she thought disgustedly. All paint and no soul, just like all the rest.

At the quietly humming WNN camera she snapped,

"Jake, I quit. I mean it, this time. You can send my final check wherever you like. To hell, for all I care. I'm going home!"

Reaching for hand bag and cell phone, Cindy tore off her press pass and stalked from the room, leaving behind nothing but eye-rolling indifference. After all, what was one less prima donna?

Underground survival bunker, Washington, D.C.-

He was getting closer. Bit by bit, one small query at a time, Shr3ddr was drawing nearer to his goal, International Rescue's computer system. The trick, as always, was to find a less secure side route. In this case, as his bashful employer wanted information on IR's leader, Shr3ddr had chosen to first locate a lesser target; the organization's computer expert. After all, in a manner of speaking, they'd already met, and Shr3ddr owed the guy. Very, very much, he owed him.

Over a carton of spicy Kung Pao chicken, the hacker considered what his cautious probes and trace-routes had so far turned up.

First: the IR system operator seemed to have gotten distracted, recently. FBI knocking down the door, maybe?

Second: a quiet little search for old hacks and exploits using his opponent's MO led back to Princeton, again.

Third: rumors.

There'd been a loose group of science and engineering students who had gotten into some major stuff, back in the early 2060s. Serious cracks. No 'Script Kiddies' there! They'd apparently been lured in by a computer science instructor currently working for Interpol. The fellow's internet handle was 'Racer X', and the Feds had finally just hired him, to keep the guy from bringing entire systems to their knees. Must've cut himself a pretty sweet, no-talk deal, Shr3ddr figured, because the other members of the group remained unaccounted for... so far. He'd been able to dredge up a few handles, though, among them 'D-Day', 'Kryptoni3n', 'Backslash', 'Krackr' and 'Anarchick'.

Smiling to himself, the hacker forked up a last mouthful of fiery chicken, swept the carton and empty soda cans off his desk top, and began hitting keys. His victim was out there, clueless and unafraid. All Shr3ddr need do was connect an identity to the right handle... and that was a mere matter of patience, caution and research. Then, on through the sysop to IR itself, and the biggest paycheck of Shr3ddr's life.