"Warning! Unauthorized intruders!"
Half-asleep, John slapped at the nonexistent alarm clock. "So what's an authorized intruder?" he muttered.
The alarm broke off momentarily. "Authorized intruders list," the computer intoned, "Tracy, Scott. Tracy, Virgil. Tracy, Gordon. Tracy . . . "
"Okay, okay," John groaned. He glanced at the other bunk, hoping Gordon hadn't heard. "Cancel report."
"Report canceled," the computer stated. The warning began again. "Unauthorized intruders! Warning!"
The warning finally penetrated John's sleep-fogged brain. "Oh, crap," he muttered, flinging off the light blanket and grabbing his discarded jumpsuit. Who the hell would be trying to get aboard Thunderbird Five? Not anyone from International Rescue. As the computer had pointed out, they were "authorized intruders," although he'd need the help of every deity ever worshiped if Dad found that out.
"What's going on?" Gordon drowsed. Slower to wake than his brother, he peered at John groggily.
"Alert," said John abruptly, "Someone's trying to dock."
As he fastened the jumpsuit, he felt the familiar thump of a spaceship locking onto Five's docking arm. Unlike the smooth whirr of Three's docking, the clamps groaned and ground their way to connection.
He hurried to the control center. There were probably only seconds before whoever was out there overrode the codes with the emergency signal. John hesitated briefly. A report to Tracy Island, or code lockout? If it were an emergency, well, International Rescue was supposed to deal with those. But if it wasn't . . .
Decision made, John hit the home frequency. If it was a true emergency, someone would have to bring up Three and take whomever it was back to Earth.
"Thunderbird Five to Tracy Island."
No answer. Well, not surprising. Five's computer indicated that its counterpart on the island was in passive monitoring, with recording systems on. Not unusual for the middle of the night. Hopefully, that damned glitch won't show its face now.
"Tracy Island, I've got an intruder alert going. Could be that someone had a problem, and Five's the nearest sanctuary, but. . . ."
The airlock blasted open, interrupting his report. Instinctively, John turned toward that area. "What the–."
"Close the channel."
Two men stood just inside the airlock door. One held a pistol; a dangerous enough piece in the vacuum of space. The other appeared unarmed. They separated as they moved forward, making it difficult for John to watch both of them.
His hand moved behind him, reaching for the "panic button." It had been one of the modifications made since the last attack on Five, when it took several precious seconds to manually call the island for help. The comm line was still open, and he mentally crossed his fingers that it would stay open, and not develop its glitch again.
"Close the channel. And move away from there."
John hit the button.
The formerly unarmed man moved, so quickly that John had no time to react. From the proverbial nowhere, a large military knife appeared. He slammed John back against the control panel, grabbing him by the throat.
Initially, the man's grasp was light, more a warning than anything else. A knife rested just above the hand. Momentarily panicked, John grabbed for both knife and grip. The hold on his throat tightened, and he gasped for air. The knife pressed in. It forced his head back, further exposing his throat. His vision blurred, and he clawed at the grip.
"You better start listening," the man told him.
"Okay," John choked. Against his instinct–and better judgement–he removed his hands from the vise at his throat. Spreading them in a gesture of surrender, he forced himself to hold still, gasping for what breath he could.
The grip loosened slightly, and the man chuckled. "You're learning . . . John," he said, having noted the name tag on the uniform "Now shut off your comm link. And the damned alarm." Both the knife and the hand remained in position.
John didn't comply immediately, concentrating instead on sucking air into his lungs. When he'd reached a point where the universe was no longer in danger of whitening out on him, he felt carefully for the comm link button, then the alarm, flipping both to the "off" position.
The man pulled him upright, then shoved him into the chair. "Sit there and don't move." He crossed behind him and stood, one hand resting on John's shoulder, and the knife's blade laying casually along the other.
Unconsciously, John pulled at the collar of his uniform, still feeling a phantom grip about his throat. He watched as the second man moved forward, inspecting the control panel.
That man glanced back at the first man, then laid the handgun on the panel. His fingers flew through a series of movements, then paused. He scrutinized both panel and screens, then turned to his companion. "Not government," he said, "the commands aren't working."
"Private sector?" the first mused, "I thought we'd checked all those, Rob." Grabbing his captive under the chin, he forced John's head back. Looking down at him, the man asked, "What's your OSN code?"
Instinctively, John grabbed at the man's arm, hoping to dislodge the grip. He succeeded, only to the extent that the chair–not properly latched previously–overturned, sending both his captor and him to the floor. John scrambled to his feet, and bolted back toward the sleeping quarters.
He didn't make it. From the floor, his opponent kicked out, throwing him off-balance. He stumbled, losing precious seconds, then recovered. But by then Brad had regained both his feet and his hostage, swinging the latter into the bulkhead.
The impact stunned him. In that instance of immobility, a fist slammed into his abdomen. A second blow doubled him over. John dropped to his knees, struggling for breath.
He was hauled to his feet, and deposited non-too-gently against the bulkhead.
"Not a smart move," the first man said. He stepped away momentarily, and retrieved the fallen knife. He moved in again, bracing his hand hard against John's shoulder. "I thought you were gonna listen." The knife paused before John's face.
Break/break/break/shouldbewhitespaceherebutFFNwillnotallowit/break/break/break
Gordon's reaction was definitely slower than his brother's. John was dressed and in the control center, before Gordon had located his discarded uniform. That's the difference in spending six months a year up here, rather than two, he groused He was more attuned to the alarms on the island than those on Five.
He was almost at the doorway, when the voice stopped him. It stripped him of the last remnants of sleep as effectively as a cold shower.
"Close the channel. And move away from there."
Scuffling sounds. He heard the thud of a body hitting the control panel, then a gasp. Gordon moved back into the shadows of the room.
"You'd better start listening."
He didn't wait to hear John's answer. Backing away from the door, he headed for the storage locker, and opened the door as silently as possible. He checked first the top shelf, then–not finding his objective there–crouched down, digging through the contents scattered on the floor. His hand closed around a hard case, fingers tracing its outline, confirming it was the object of his search. He pulled the case from the locker, and opened it.
The contents had been the subject of a few heated discussions. John had been vehemently against its presence on Thunderbird Five, citing the potential problems and illogic of having a gun on a space station. Jeff and Scott had been just as adamant about having some type of defensive weapon on each of the Thunderbirds, Five included. Virgil had waffled on the issue and Brains had abstained, after pointing out that they had no effective alternate choice yet. Not actively involved in International Rescue at the time, neither Gordon and Alan had been consulted.
John had been overruled. Guns had gone to Five and each of her sister ships, and the brothers were trained to use the weapons. He smiled briefly, remembering that training. Unlike the 'birds themselves, which his three older brothers rotated as instructors along with their father, Jeff–and Jeff alone–taught weapons, one-on-one. He gave no quarter, not during training, nor at their yearly qualification. Alan was in for a surprise there.
The alarm fell silent, startling him. His fingers moved over the weapon, checking the safety, then loading ammunition into it. Then he stood, his breathing slow and steady, focusing on his half-formed plan, and moved toward the door.
Another crash interrupted his progress. Sounds like John's putting up a fight. He took a deep breath, then stepped into the situation.
His brother was restrained by two men, one of whom was holding a knife in front of John. The other didn't appear to have a weapon. Gordon moved quietly forward, stopping just beyond arm's length, and said, "Let him go."
Their attention turned toward him. "Put it down, Junior," said the unarmed man, releasing his hold, and turning to face Gordon.
"Let him go," repeated Gordon.
The knife-welder smiled. "Put it down," he said. The knife rotated smoothly until it rested at John's throat. "You can shoot both of us, but I guarantee your buddy'll be dead before you finish." The knife tilted slightly, forcing an inarticulate sound from John. "Your choice, kid."
"Kill him, and there goes your best shot at running this station," Gordon warned.
"Gord, don't." Much as John appreciated his brother's gamble; if these guys thought Gordon had no value to them, they'd kill him without a second thought.
"Drop the gun," said Brad. The knife scored a shallow cut just above John's collar, and he grabbed at that hand, struggling against the pressure of the knife. Gordon hesitated.
"Last chance," Rob said, sensing Gordon's uncertainty. He stepped away from the other two, moving toward Gordon. He glanced back at his partner. "Brad. . . ."
Gordon fired.
Surprised by the impact, long seconds passed before he realized that it was not the kick of the handgun, but a tackle from Rob that knocked him over. Gordon rolled with the hit, losing both his attacker and his grip on the gun. The weapon skittered across the floor, away from all participants.
He scrambled after it, and had barely got hold of the handgrip when it slid from his grasp. Gordon grabbed for it, engaging in a brief tug-of-war for possession. He glanced up at his rival, his eyes meeting John's. With an enigmatic smile, his brother released the weapon. Gordon scrambled to one knee, angling himself so that John was behind him.
Scanning the control room for damage, he speculated where the bullet had gone. No alarms. The bulkheads are holding. He wondered briefly why John had relinquished the weapon to him, then dismissed the thought, concentrating instead on their opponents.
"You son-of-a-bitch," Brad said. Gordon wasn't sure what he'd managed to hit, but at least it had caused Brad to drop the knife. "I ought to-"
"Drop it," said his partner, to all of them. Rather than fight Gordon and John for the possession of their weapon, Rob had simply retreated, and retrieved his pistol from the control panel. And the brothers were positioned such that he could cover both easily.
"Shit," Gordon muttered. Their opponents were far enough apart that he couldn't cover both. He broke his two-handed grip on the gun, spread his hands apart, and carefully laid the weapon on the deck. "We're screwed," he muttered to John.
"Definitely," said John softly from behind him, "Damn."
"Sit back down by your buddy," Rob told Gordon. He turned back to the console.
Gordon complied, sitting cross-legged, and watched the two men warily. Beside him, John sighed and leaned back into the bulkhead, knees drawn up and arms resting on top of them. His eyes closed, as they often did when he was thinking.
Brad retrieved the gun Gordon had surrendered. He tucked it into his belt, alongside the knife. Blood trickled down his injured hand, and it appeared that the bullet had gone through the hand. He examined the injury, then looked at the brothers and asked, "You got a first aid kit on board?"
"Over there." Gordon jerked his thumb toward the airlock.
"Get it."
"Get it yourself," Gordon retorted, in no mood to be cooperative.
The man looked down at him, obviously exasperated, and withdrew the knife. "You're testing my patience, kid. And I don't have a lot." He grabbed Gordon by the shirtfront, hauling him upright. "Maybe you'd like an example."
"Gordon." John cautioned.
Glaring into Brad's face, Gordon nodded curtly. The man released him, leaving smeared bloodstains on the front of his uniform. He watched as Gordon walked over to the locker. He retrieved a smaller kit from it, and returned. He set the container on raised platform of the control center.
"Open it," the man said, watching carefully as Gordon did so. He extended his injured hand, and ordered, "Wrap it up."
Gordon sorted through the items he needed. As John had pointed out earlier, the antibiotics were low, so hopefully this character wouldn't need any. He knew Scott had planned to bring up more supplies–medical as well as other–when he returned. At that time, it hadn't seemed like a big deal. But now. . . .
He bandaged the man's hand, using a topical antibiotic. As he closed the kit, Brad said casually, "You got any antibiotics in there?"
"What?"
The man looked at Gordon condescendingly. "You just put a bullet through my hand, Junior," he said, "And while bullets can be sterilized in the barrel, I'd just as soon not take any chances that it brought along some nasty little buddies with it." The knife pointed toward the kit. "So. . . ."
"Not in here," said Gordon. He looked back at the locker, then cursed himself for doing so, as Brad's gaze had followed his. Reluctantly, he got up and walked back to the locker, pulling out the antibiotics' bin. Following an instinct he couldn't quite name, he pulled out the amoxycillin bottle. Brad extended his hand again, palm up, waiting. Gordon walked back, and handed the bottle to him.
Brad casually glanced at the label. Then he twisted off the cover, shook out two pills and dry-swallowed them. Replacing the cover, he tucked the bottle into his pocket, smiling sardonically at Gordon.
"If you're done getting doctored," Rob interrupted from the control panel, "I still need the OSN code. Vicky's gonna be pissed if we don't report in soon." He scowled. "And this system is definitely non-standard."
Brad looked from Gordon to John, considering. Having made his choice, he said to Gordon. "Sit this one out, Junior." He gestured to John. "You."
John rose slowly, and moved toward the console. "We don't have an OSN code," he said.
"No tricks," warned Brad. Casually toying with his knife, he loomed over Gordon.
"No trick," John said, "We were granted an exemption." Settling cautiously in the chair, he typed a command into the system. An error message displayed briefly. Then the screen flickered, blinked once, then went blank. This is not the time, John silently told the computer. He rested his hands on the edge of the console, steadying himself.
"What did you do?" Rob demanded, grabbing him by the shoulder and yanking him around. There was an enraged sound from Gordon, muting his own exclamation.
John recoiled. "I didn't," he said, "We've got a problem with our computers, and we haven't been able to pin it down."
"What about that other system?"
So that's how they found us. Turning back to the console, he keyed the appropriate commands. Another error message appeared on the screen. "That's not right," he muttered, and looked up at Rob. "The other system is in lockout," he said. "And it can only be reset from its primary system." He drew a deep breath, winced again, and added, "On Earth."
"Damn," said Rob, in frustration "This complicates things."
"A bit," John agreed.
Infuriated, Rob backhanded him, rocking John in the chair. This time the latches held, and the blow slammed him into it, snapping his head back. The movement wrenched a groan from him.
Protesting, Gordon reflexively scrambled to his feet. He hesitated, when Brad slowly waggled the knife in front of him.
"Get back over there," Rob snarled at both of them.
John's face paled as he stood. He started back toward Gordon, then stopped, swaying. His hand dropped from his shoulder, and he reached toward the wall for support. His eyes closed.
"John?" Gordon asked, "You okay?" His stomach tightened as he stepped toward his brother, shaking off Brad's restraining hand.
"Not exactly," was the response. John staggered, then crumpled into Gordon's arms.