Oh, well... a little more.

61

Madrid, Spain:

Gordon escorted Anika up the stairs of the Santa Clara women's dorm, an arm across her slim shoulders. She was wearing his team jacket, partly to ward off the growing chill (Madrid cooled rapidly, once the sun set), partly as a mark of belonging. It wasn't a ring, or anything, but it mattered.

If one of her teammates asked, she'd shrug and say (in Spanish, so they'd be sure to understand),

"Es de mi novio." ("Oh, it's my boyfriend's.")

Carelessly, just as though the words didn't cause a very sunburst within her chest. That would be tomorrow, though, or the next day. Now…

At the top of the steps, just outside the main doors, they paused. He wasn't allowed any farther, and the evening's farewells would have to be said here.

From the city around them came noise and music, with animated adverts flashed onto clouds, buildings and even the moon. In the midst of all this, Gordon faced Anika. She stepped eagerly into his embrace, eyes wide, lips slightly parted. Pulled close, she fit like the other piece of a puzzle, like something missing that had finally been found. He kissed her again, losing track of everything but the lass; her scent and feel and slight motions against him.

Then someone… Bela… pounded upon the doors of the women's dormitory from inside, nearly wrenching the glass panels from their hinges. Just like old times.

With a deep sigh, and slightly pained smile, he pulled away from the girl. She gazed at him, her expression one of love and complete trust. In a way, it was almost frightening to have someone look at him with such obvious devotion. Odd that he hadn't really noticed before, in far-off Portland. Maybe he'd simply chosen not to.

Tracing a gentle forefinger along her delicate collarbones, Gordon said,

"Tomorrow, then? After practice?"

Anika nodded, her smile as bright as the city, abruptly, wasn't. For everywhere, all at once, the lights had gone out, leaving Madrid in sudden darkness.

Anika made a small, puzzled sound. Surprised, she might be, but the lass was no coward.

"Gordon," she asked him, as he placed himself between her and the noise of horns and crashes, "What has happening?"

"I dunno, Love; power outage. Nothin' serious, I expect."

But such things never happened, anymore. Computer networks and a world-wide energy grid saw to constant, ready power.

Unless there'd been some sort of attack, he couldn't think why the entire city would go dark at once.

Then, with a loud click, the glass doors unlocked and swung open. Two massive, hairy arms shot out, seized Gordon and Anika, and yanked them inside the dormitory. Bela.

Gordon tried to twist away, but his shirt was held fast in a thick, meaty paw. From deeper within the building, he could hear frightened, girlish voices calling for light.

"Um… thanks f'r th' assist, I'm sure." Still pinned, he was about to start feeling around for pressure points… "But I'd best be goin'. There may be somethin' I c'n do t' help."

In the darkness, Bela Stepanovic snorted rudely, releasing Gordon. Patting his own pockets, the beefy gym coach located a book of matches (from a local tapas bar, as it happened), and lit one.

With a faint scrape and sudden golden flare, his ugly, mustached face swam into view. Perhaps, after all, the blackout hadn't been such a bad thing.

"So, now you are hero, along with swimmer?" Bela scoffed, nearly putting the tiny match flame out.

A security guard strode up, swinging the yellow beam of a battery-operated torch like a blind man's white cane. Stepanovic greeted the young fellow, accepting a spare light and shouting encouragement to his frightened team, before rounding on Gordon.

"You have medal for pool, Boy, not for battle. Let police do job, and stay inside."

Gordon bristled at the bigger man's scornful tone. He might have made a fight of it, but Anika placed a quick, light hand on his arm.

"Por favor, Gordon, listen him? Is nothing for to do outside but getting hit with cars."

Gordon shifted his weight a bit. In the yellow torch gleam, she looked both proud and concerned, as though the effort would be heroic, but suicidal; as if she expected no less of him, but was bound to prevent it, all the same.

Well… maybe there was another way. Reaching into his left shorts pocket, Gordon dug out his cell phone. If the power outage was some sort of computer problem, he knew just who to call for help.

Mars-

They waited, feeling the walls of the supply cylinder flex and tremble around them. Ten minutes, fifteen, then twenty… and still no sign of the tractor. Meanwhile, dust in tall, abrasive drifts was piling against the sides of the airlock, insinuating itself deeper between the petals of the irised hatch. Time wasn't just short, it was all but gone.

The door and suits would soon be completely inoperable, yet, as the shrieking blackness went on and on, neither Linda nor Cho could bring themselves to attempt sealing the airlock.

'One more minute… just another ten seconds…' they'd think, looking, not at each other, but out into chaos.

Then Linda heard something, or thought she did. It was difficult to tell through all the interference, but it sounded like Pete McCord.

"Doct… -ead me? Can't… -ind…"

Kim Cho had heard it, too. Her power suit twisted rustily about to face Linda's, both women trying desperately to boost and return the signal. No luck, and no further hails.

Doctor Bennett, in one of those terribly cold, precise moments where everything becomes flash-bulb clear, realized that the men were lost.

"Oh, my God…" she whispered to herself. "No comm, no beacons, no visibility. They could pass within ten feet of this thing, and never see it!" And the storm might continue for weeks. Trapped in the tractor, buried in dust, their air would gradually foul, and they'd die.

Kim was alphabet-signing, again, her suit's big, clumsy hands aping the letters with all the grace of a back-hoe clanking through Swan Lake.

"Make… a… signal."

Bingo! A light of some sort. But, how? Fire was out of the question; not enough oxygen to support regular combustion.

Perhaps something useful lay hid among the supplies and construction gear?

The inner airlock was keyed open, its irising petals seeming to move with malicious slowness. A rush of long-pent nitrogen gas shrilled past them both, equalizing the pressure and nearly toppling Linda, whose reaction time was definitely headed south. Too much dust in the joints, probably.

Inside the main storage area, boxes and crates lay everywhere, tumbled and strewn by the force of the cylinder's rough landing. Snapped elastic cargo webbing had collapsed to the floor, a snare for unwary mechanized feet.

Somehow, they avoided tripping long enough to locate a box of giant emergency flares, the sort that were meant to be seen from orbit. An astronaut, alone and in trouble… lost in Valles Marineris, say… could trigger one of these things when Global Surveyor passed overhead, summoning help.

A simple, timed fuse would set it off, creating a distress signal like the eruption of a magnesium volcano. Exceedingly tough to miss.

Linda pulled four of the devices out of their crate. They resembled a cross between old-style road flares and cannon, being about six feet in length and colored a business-like black.

Cho got still more, as many as her power suit's arms would hold. Over-kill, Linda thought, letting the matter pass.

Instead, a hastily signed conference sketched the outlines of their plan. Arms loaded with pyrotechnics, the women left the inner storage compartment, resealing it behind them. No sense spoiling the groceries.

Linda then set her bounty on the airlock floor and ducked through the half-open portal. Immediately, wind and dust enveloped her in a black and swirling shroud. She seized hold of a hatch panel, driving big metal fingers deep into the stuff of the door.

Cho followed moments later, 'brailing' her way along Linda's outstretched suit arms until she could lock wrists with her friend and inch her own power suit still further, one giant hand holding her 'candle'.

Then, while Linda tried repeatedly to raise the tractor on every available comm channel, Cho used her suit's last grinding movements to plant and ignite the first flare.

Pointed end down… safety cap off… set short-range trigger… go!

She and Linda had the sense to look away, and their faceplates darkened automatically, but the flare's sun-like stab still hurt; an inaudible, heatless ice-pick to the optic nerve.

"Please…" Linda pled quietly, shielding her eyes. "Please be looking this way, somebody."

Less than a quarter of a mile away-

"What was that?" John asked aloud, raising his voice to be heard above the hissing, scraping dust and shrieking wind. The tractor treads, mounted separately and capable of independent movement, gave the vehicle a rough ride, and made looking outside difficult. Not that there had been much to see, so far.

"What was what?" Commander McCord took a break from his uselesstransmitting, to ask.

John shook his head, shifting around in his seat for a better angle. The side windows weren't positioned very well.

"Nothing, probably. Just… thought I saw a flash. Lightning, maybe, or a break in the storm, if we've somehow gotten lucky."

Roger followed his friend's glance. There it was, again. A pure white gleam, steadier and longer-lasting than anything native to Mars.

"Hell, no, AO'," he joked, brown face wreathed in sudden smiles, "that's no moon, it's a space station!"

"What?" Pete demanded testily, having followed next to nothing of Roger's English-Klingon-Samoan muddle.

"A signal," John clarified, smiling faintly, despite the feeling that he was being crushed into an ever-shrinking corner of his own mind.

The Marine hauled the steering yoke around, sending their tractor into a slow, lurching turn.

"Looks like the runway lights just cut on, Skipper. Changing course to bring us in." And then, a bit lower, but no less heart-felt, "That's my girl."

Washington D.C., below ground and abandoned-

There was only one Princeton grad on the Ares III crew; their pilot, John Tracy. Shr3ddr examined the guy's official portrait and bio. About the right age, genius IQ, computer background, and the son of Jeff Tracy, who certainly had the money and tech to run something like International Rescue. Almost certainly, the hacker had bagged his man.

Now he faced the tricky part, the really tough decision. Namely, what to do next? If he gave his employer the information, Shr3ddr rendered himself, in one stroke, expendable. He wasn't a fool. The man who'd hired him didn't like loose ends, or payouts. Following up the odd rumor to two, Shr3ddr had learned of his employer's attempts to sabotage the Mars mission, and of what had happened to the agents involved. Dead, each and every one.

Important life lesson, there. The bunker's power could quite easily be shut off, again, leaving Shr3ddr trapped, with no way to call for help.

"Face the truth, Fielding," he grunted, wishing ardently for something to drink, "You're screwed. Give him what he wants, and he'll leave you here to die; no ifs, ands or butts, except yours, in a concrete coffin."

One of the pencil stubs fell from the ceiling, clattering to the floor as if agreeing with him. Great. Well, he could always pull a double-cross… Contact IR, and offer to trade their fair-haired boy's security for some hush money and a quick rescue… What the hell, huh? Worth a try.

Picking an official law enforcement computer system, one the Thunderbirds would be certain to monitor, Shr3ddr jacked in, typing,

"Hey, fellas… a little help, here?"