This is supposed to be in two parts, due to length... didn't work out that way, though. Doing this whilst de-fragmenting the computer... Now re-re-edited! Slightly new, hardly different! Too much meade!
9
Princeton University, years earlier-
The library, several stories tall and built of dark-veined stone, looked like a castle, complete with long, narrow windows and sweeping steps; very imposing amid ancient trees, and an excellent place to spend a blustery Saturday.
He'd gone to the stacks one morning, talking his way around the head librarian with some bullshit story about an overdue research paper. Way at the back, where mummified books breathed leathery dust and faded diagrams, he found something unexpected.
There was a book there… not so old, but the only one in print… authored many years before by a Doctor Dwight Bremmerman. Called 'Temporal-Spatial Navigation in Ten Dimensions', it was a densely written treatise on time travel; a how-to, basically, and John was fascinated. The fact that Bremmerman had been a 21-year old post-doc at Princeton, had produced just this one amazing book, then vanished utterly, made the find especially valuable. (To John, at least. No else had ever checked it out, to judge by the book's lily-white signature card.)
John took it away from the physics section, then found himself aquiet window seat with a commanding view of leaf-browned lawns and bare trees. The light outside was weak and watery, filtered through a layer of cloud. He sat down, opened up the book and proceeded to read… himself to sleep.
Until someone kicked the base of the window seat, that is. John woke with a start, nearly dropping the heavy tome. He'd been dreaming about computers, storms and his missing brother… but there was Drew, instead, more disgusted than ever.
She said, narrowing heavily-kohled lids over garnet contacts,
"First the basement, now this. What are you, homeless?"
Great.
"No," John replied unwillingly, getting to his feet. Drew was in two of his classes, and she worked at the library. He couldn't simply ignore her. "Holder Hall. Moved in last semester."
"Uh-huh," very skeptically. "Coupon day, was it? Or, did the local Knights of Columbus scrape up a scholarship for you? One of those 'Send our Johnny to school' deals with the bake sales and car washes?"
He met that artificial ruby stare head on, saying coldly,
"It's paid for, and my name is 'John', not 'Johnny'."
She shrugged.
"I'll call you 'Tracy'. 'John' sounds like something on a toe-tag in the morgue lost-and-found. Let me guess… you were the tenth kid, and they ran out of ideas? Better than 'White Male Infant', I suppose… but not much."
Actually, his mother and Scott had called him 'Johnny', while his grandmother stuck with 'John Matthew' or 'Boy', like Granddad. But that was need-to-know information, and this costumed witch didn't qualify. He was about to push past, when she asked,
"You want it?"
That threw a truckload of sand in the gears.
"Beg pardon?"
"The… book, Tracy." Slowly and sarcastically spoken, while pointing at Bremmerman's magnum opus. "Would… you… like… to… check out… the… book?"
Then, back to her usual biting tones,
"Or, just cuddle it till closing time? I'll tuck you back in and dim the lights, if the two of you would like to be alone."
He'd met something at the ranch trash pit, once, with about the same level of charm. Unfortunately, this time, John hadn't any bear spray, or well-armed brothers. Worse, she was a female. He wasn't supposed to hit females, no matter how richly they deserved it.
"Don't suppose you'd vanish in a puff of smoke, if I make the sign of the cross?" He wondered aloud, stepping carefully around her, "…return to the 7th level of hell, or something?"
The corners of her dark-lipsticked mouth twitched slightly.
"Aww… a sweet little Catholic boy tries his luck in the big city! All this, and a sense of humor, too? Momma must be so proud!"
Normally packed and sorted away, things inside him snap-shuffled, like playing cards with razor edges. He got a little slashed, but when everything settled, the topmost option was the truth.
"She's dead."
And Drew, for once, said nothing. John added, sounding terribly calm,
"She fell, quite awhile ago, with the baby. My father couldn't catch her. He was busy with Scott. She's inaccessible for questioning, now, so there's no way to tell what she'd think of me."
He reported this almost as if it didn't matter. The girl had wrapped skinny arms around herself. After a minute, she asked,
"But, you remember her, right?"
John nodded. Very much, he remembered her.
"And she liked you okay, right up till… you know?"
"I got that impression, yes."
Drew kind of shrugged, then shoved at his left shoulder with an almost-careless hand. Maybe apologetic or maybe she just liked hitting people. No way to tell, with females.
"So, on first principles, an 'a priori' argument can be made that she started out pleased, and…well, you made it to Princeton at 17, so…"
"Sixteen," he clarified. Like Drew herself, he was an under-aged 'special student'.
"Okay. Even better. You're a wunderkind farm boy, or something. I'd be pretty impressed, if it was me. I mean, most moms have to make do with spelling bees and model solar systems, y'know? Or, in your case, artistic cattle-branding."
Weird, how a few back-handed compliments could change everything. All at once, in her second-hand clothing and bleak makeup, Autumn Drew seemed less creepy than alone. Like someone determined to snarl, "I didn't need you, anyway," to all those turned backs and blank looks.
"Yeah," he said aloud. "I'd like to check it out."
And then, because she seemed confused,
"The book, Drew. I'm interested."
Something had been established, however slight. And so, they went downstairs together, to see about 'Temporal-Spatial Navigation'.
Kennedy Space Center, Florida-
Her password still worked, allowing Linda Bennett access to her own medical files, and everyone else's. Those of John Tracy and Pete McCord were old, updated last via transmission from Mars. At the time, they'd both been in reasonably good health, though showing predictable signs of increased stress (John with raised pulse and breath rate, suddenly). Nothing more in the last two days, though, and no indication that the two men were being held incommunicado. Damn.
It had been worth a try…
At her own bio-med screen, Dr. Bennett received a rather large shock. Two, actually.
Scrolling down the page, scanning all those dry, poly-syllabic medical terms, she read the file twice, then checked Dr. Kim's, and that of Roger Thorpe.
Cho read over her shoulder. Roger, too, though he didn't understand most of what he saw.
"So," the Marine asked at last, judging from the women's frowns that something very strange had happened, "what's the diagnosis, Ladies? Are we gonna make it?"
He tried for a humorous tone, but his dark eyes were quite serious. Linda's mouth tightened. She nodded.
"To say the least. It's like we've been completely… not just transported, Roger, but… remade. Right down to the cellular… the DNA level. Every protein is properly folded and whirring along, all our telomeres have lengthened… not a single sign of biological wear. Not one. It's like someone made a mold of our old bodies, then cast new ones with all-new parts and materials." Nor was that all.
"Then, we're healthy?" Roger inquired, running a hand across his bristling black hair. He badly needed a trim.
"Completely," Linda responded.
"Just squared-away as a soup sandwich," he gusted. "What about Pete and John? Where are…"
It was at this point that Gene Porter walked into the tech station, together with a stocky young chaplain, and NASA's director. Linda cleared the screen, and stood up. At her full height, she barely topped 5'3".
"Gene," she greeted the mission director, giving Father Hughes and Jerry Frasier a wary nod.
Tall and silver haired, with a politician's ready smile, Frasier specialized in fund-raising and public relations. 'Spin', in other words. The Navy Chaplain's presence was far more worrisome. He started to speak, but Gene cut him off with a sharp gesture.
"If you don't mind, Father, this is my job."
Speaking to the federal agents and the still-wondering lab technician, he added,
"Folks, I'd like to clear this room of everyone but Mr. Frasier, the Padre, here, and the astronauts. We're going to need to conference, in private."
A few moments later, he'd gotten his wish. Gene waited until the door latched shut behind Agent Rutherford, whom he trusted to prevent intrusion.
The only sounds, now, were the various hums and chirps of busy computer equipment. Fluorescent lights flickered palely in the windowless room, washing out six complexions. Everyone looked haggard, grim and dog-tired.
Turning to Linda, Roger and Cho, the launch director cleared his throat.
"I've got some news," he began, "which I apologize for taking so long to bring you. The, um… well. I needed to be sure."
At Gene's side, Frasier stirred restlessly; crossing, then un-crossing his long arms.
"Got a couple of phone calls, today. I'll start with the last one. It seems that about two months ago, a middle-aged vagrant was picked up on the streets of downtown Saginaw. He claimed to an astronaut; one of the Ares III crew. Naturally, no one believed him. Not with the full crew on Mars, broadcasting live from the Argyre Basin. So, he ended up in the psychiatric wing of the local charity hospital, medicated and ignored, except for some missionary-types."
"Saginaw…? Pete?" Linda whispered, allowing herself a bit of joy, amid apprehension. "But, if he's been back for two months, why didn't he call to warn us?"
"He tried, and so did the Bible-bangers." Gene rubbed at the back of his own neck, blue eyes fixed on the linoleum floor. "But, somehow, every time, something went wrong. The connection was lost, power lines went down, someone wheeled him off for more testing… and, on top of all that, his ID chip burned out. Net result, no communication. Untilan hourago, that is."
"Huh," Roger grunted, shaking his head. "Like the universe wasn't going to let him get through in time to change anything."
"Exactly," Gene agreed, cracking his swollen knuckles. "He was safe, but unable to make contact until after Endurance vanished from our screens. Long story short: he's on his way, courtesy of Sawyer Air Force Base."
The mission director paused, then. He had further news, but there wasn't any good way to begin.
"And, John?" Dr. Kim prodded gently, when the silence stretched beyond bearing. "Has he, also, been hospitalized?"
"Umm… no. I suggest you sit down. This isn't going to be easy. I haven't called the family, yet, because, in a very real sense, you are his closest kin, and I thought you deserved to know, first."
Linda saw Porter's mouth moving, saw that his collar was loosened, his 'Imperial Storm Trooper' tie askew. Every once in awhile, she made out a word or two.
"…ship…remains… identified… John Tracy's… very sorry."
There was more, but a wall of blurry brightness had sprung up, suddenly. Her eyes stung, colors and computer lights running together. Her insides were numbed by a killing frost. All at once, Linda sat down.
The chaplain started forward, but Roger Thorpe blocked his passage with an aggressive stiff-arm. This was a family matter.
Kim Cho embraced her friend, saying,
"It makes no sense, though! Why would the rest of us be transported safely… even the rat… yet, not John?"
For, after reappearing in the musty halls of her Manhattan High School, Cho had caught the briefest glimpse of white fur and pink tail as Lucky vanished down a dark stairwell. At the time, it hadn't mattered much. After all, what was one rodent more, in New York City? She'd told the examining technicians, though. Linda now lifted her head.
"Fish, too," the doctor muttered. "Thing One and Thing Two showed up in Dan's bait tank, with the shiners and baby cats. We had to rescue them. I almost forgot."
It was hard to think around a wound so ragged and sudden. In this business, you lost comrades. Some to plane crashes and training accidents, others to sheer bad luck. Still…
"Kim's right," Roger decided. "It doesn't make sense. Every other living thing aboard Endurance made it off. Why not John? I mean…"
The Marine was thinking furiously, now, arguing with a universe whose rules he had yet to figure out.
"…Pete's transported two months into the past, and prevented from reaching NASA, or the press. Well, what if John's in the same boat?"
Cho picked up the thread, drawing certainty from her fiancé.
"Perhaps all of us were destroyed, and remade, Gene. All of our remains somewhere aboard. John was alone on the flight deck, the rest of us asleep… and the ship has yet to be fully explored. I beg that we not assume the worst, Gene, before checking each possibility."
The mission director rubbed his hands together, wanting very badly to be convinced. (Once everything else had flown out of the box, all that remained was hope).
"Maybe…" Gene slowly agreed. "He could… I don't know… be in prison for jay-walking, or a mental ward, somewhere. But why wouldn't he call in by now? Pete did."
It was Linda who answered that one. Patting Kim Cho's hand, where it had rested upon her shoulder, the doctor stood up again.
"Think about his psych-profile, Gene. He's never liked asking for help, or pulling others into his problems, either. If John found himself alone and in trouble, the last thing he'd do is call out the cavalry. You nearly scrubbed him for that, remember?"
Gene Porter had the requisite imagination to make that leap, and so, as it turned out, did NASA's director.
"Mr. Frasier," said Gene, "if you can give us twelve hours before going public with this, or telling the family… have the PR crew come up with some kind of stall tactic… we'll do our damndest to find Tracy, Sir."
The director agreed with a curt nod.
"You've got your twelve hours, Gene. I'll call Jeff, and stop up any media leaks. Best I can do, I'm afraid."
Then, glancing at the chaplain, who'd stood patiently by,
"Father Hughes, if you'll come with me? People are distracted by all the storm coverage and transferred citizens, anyhow, so all we really need to do is keep 'em looking the other way."
The two men left, plotting diversionary tactics. But it was Gene who rolled the winning numbers. Looking at the astronauts, he said,
"Wait a minute; doesn't John spend a lot of time on the internet? Is there a handle or code he'd respond to?"
Curacao-
About the time that Thunderbird 2 finally lifted off for Venezuela, groaning with refugees, Gordon made a swift, desperate move. Cold and fierce, a sudden upwelling had batted the sub off course.
Instead of trying to correct, he cut downward, praying that the dolphins could wring a bit more 'go' out of the little oxygen remaining in their lungs. More than once, he'd been in the same position, straining blindly for the pool wall with nothing left but a chest full of fire.
Something rocketed past, having aimed its strike where Thunderbird 4 would have been, had Gordon tried for the cave mouth, again. Its incredible speed and huge size… 80 feet long, he'd have wagered… shook the Waterbird and her escorts like dice in a cup. There was a gaping snout lined with jagged teeth, some broken, others with bits of twisted metal and flesh caught between. Then an eye, glowing yellow and slit-pupiled, as big around as a platter.
For just an instant, the eye seemed to look at him, swiveling slightly, pupil changing size to accommodate the red cockpit lighting. He caught a quick glimpse of his own reflection. Then, it was gone, followed by 70 feet of close-scaled muscle and sculling tail. Thunderbird 4 tumbled through black water, pierced by the dolphins' shrill clicking. One of them was injured, dorsal fin torn by a glancing blow.
Above, silhouetted briefly against wave-roiled surface and lightning flash, something enormous curved back around for another go. Fighting the urge to be sick, Gordon wrestled Thunderbird 4 upright again. He'd got another notion.
Besides sign language, the Sea Base dolphins understood Morse code (if speeded up to hornet level). As the monster shot downward, jaws wide, he coded and sent a single instruction: break.
The cetaceans obeyed, flashing away in all directions, one of them leaving a blood-trail. To draw attention, Gordon cut on 4's running lights. Then, he extended the cutting arm, with its plasma torch. It ignited, a sun-bright, screaming-white flare.
The ocean bottom stood revealed, stark as a canyoned desert at mid-day. Above him, the killer veered off, confused. And, for the first time, Gordon saw the other one. Definitely smaller, it hung back just a bit. A juvenile, perhaps?
In any case, he couldn't let them escape. Not with the dolphins fleeing for safety, and trapped refugee ships needing a way to the surface.
So, murmuring a swift, 'Hail Mary' (the hour of his death had never seemed closer), the young aquanaut triggered Thunderbird 4's force field and tore through boiling water like a comet, aiming squarely at the largest creature. He was frictionless and faster than sound, trailing shock waves that crushed a nearby reef and cracked another city dome.
The monster above him attempted to twist away, but too slowly. Its scales glittered in the torch light, polished bronze eaten through with corrosion. He struck it mid-flank, with a concussion that would have quite destroyed the little sub, had the force field not held her together. His plasma cutter sheared scale and flesh and muscle like a laser scalpel.
There was a brief, searing flash and a tremendous thud, as though he'd fetched up against a sodden cliff. At hypersonic speed, though, the shielded sub didn't stop. It drilled. Seconds later he was through, and two halves of an ancient reptile went spiraling down to the sea floor, trailing plumes of dark blood.
The smaller creature fled away, but Gordon dared not follow. Not yet. Using force shield and plasma torch at full speed had savagely drained his Bird. There'd be damned little power left to clear the docking platform.
Thunderbird 4 shot free of the stained depths, arcing back around toward the Sea Base. Gordon switched off the force shield and plasma torch. Then, shuddering slightly at the feel and 'scent' of blood in the water, he reached for a sickness bag. Not that he had much to heave… couple of strawberry power bars and a bottle of water… but he felt better, afterward. Weak stomach in times of crisis, or something of the sort. A good job Alan wasn't there; he'd have laughed. But Gordon had other matters to attend to. Calls, for one.
As soon as the shield's interference was gone, he picked up Commander Carlin's insistent, cross-frequency hail.
"…base to Thunderbird 4. What the hell's going on, eh? Sounds like Armageddon out there! Do you require assistance?"
He'd donned his suit gloves again, the better to remain firmly in his own body, and back in the cockpit. Flipping comm channels, Gordon replied,
"Sea Base Alpha, from Thunderbird 4. No assistance required, thank you, commander. There were two of your 'things' out here, actually. One's dead, th' other driven off. I'll be clearin' th' platform, now."
His voice sounded a bit strained. It actually cracked once, as it hadn't done in years. Carlin paused a moment, evidently speaking off-mike. Then he responded.
"Understand two creatures? One dead, the other gone? That correct, Thunderbird 4?"
"Yes, Sir."
He was quite close, could see the wide, circular docking platform, its hatch blocked by the collapse of a mooring tower. Coral Sea was ¾ dark now, the water rising fast and chill within her. Streams of bubbles fled upward like jellyfish, escaping to the surface as the people could not.
"Very good, Thunderbird 4, and thanks for your help. I'm scrambling the last wave of Tigersharks, and I've got word from the US Navy and WASP, that they've freed up a couple of subs."
Throttling back, Gordon used water jets to maneuver his Bird into position. Lot of junk to avoid… though not much of a current… He played the sub's flood lights over twisted metal, illuminating the scarred hatch. Fifteen minutes; ten if he hurried, and if all went well.
The dolphins came back after a good breath of air, grinning at him through the view screen. One of them picked a bit of wreckage off the platform and heaved it over the side. Apparently, he was going to have help. Gordon waved at them, feeling very much better, suddenly.
"Understood, Sir," he replied to Carlin. "And, y' might want t' get clear, your own self. You can lead just as well from a boat, I'm certain."
"Love to," the commander replied, wryly. (At this point, he was standing knee-deep in cold water along with several dozen scientists, Sky-Diver pilots and citizens. "…but there's the small matter of a jammed airlock. I'm in this for the duration, whatever happens. No one's playing 'Nearer, My God, to Thee' yet, though."
Gordon couldn't help smiling at the man's tone of voice, which was far drier than his circumstances.
"Right. Hang on, then. We'll have you lot free an' clear in no time at all."
Space, Thunderbird 3, beyond Earth orbit-
Bad news, indeed.
"She's been cut in half," TinTin had told them, "and the pieces are drifting apart, with survivors in each. If we do not hurry, Scott, we will not be able to rescue both groups of cosmonauts."
Kuiper lay at the extreme end of Thunderbird 3's scanning range; very difficult to probe, even with International Rescue technology. The narrow cockpit was quiet for an instant.
Then, Scott nodded, looking pale and weak, but composed.
"We'd better make it quick. There has to be something we can do without, to save power… Alan?"
"Huh?" The youngest Tracy looked up from the cribbed diagrams he'd been puzzling over. So far, he'd pretty much stayed out of things, not wanting to step on his recently wakened brother's toes. Anyway, Scott and TinTin seemed to have the situation under control.
Flipping switches and consulting data screens, the fighter pilot said,
"Simulation 24-Delta: the meteor-strike and space walk scenario. You remember it?"
"Well, yeah. Only practiced it, like, a million times, Scott."
Although he sounded exasperated and bored, 24-D was actually one of Alan's favorite simulations. The views of Earth were spectacular. If, you know, you liked that kind of thing.
"Good. Same basic scenario, then. We'll get you as close as we can, you'll use the thruster pack to cross over, then find and rescue the crew. Repeat procedure for the other half of the wreck. Got it?"
Alan rolled his eyes.
"Piece of cake, Dude. I haven't scored less than a 96 on that sim in weeks."
Scott Tracy found Alan's confidence more worrisome than comforting, however. Shifting around in the padded pilot's seat, violet-blue eyes hard as drills, he said,
"This isn't playtime, Alan. Understand, there are real lives, including your own, at stake here. Be careful. The more you think things through, the less you'll have to regret, later. Understood?"
"Sure," Alan agreed, nodding with what he imagined to be just the right amount of steely resolve.
TinTin shook her head, but then, girls always worried too much. Drove him crazy.
"No problem, Scott. Just point me in the right direction, stand back, and let the rescues begin. You'll be, like, astonished."
Or something. Scott sighed, more concerned than ever. He wasn't up to a spacewalk, though, and he knew it.
'Just add to the list of victims, and leave the kids with no direction.'
John would have been a safer bet for this sort of thing. Working together, he and Scott had rescued over thirty victims, the time that a runaway business shuttle, the Rutan, had collided with an orbital hotel.
Oh, well… you played the hand you were dealt. He couldn't help wishing that Alan would quit spinning his chair from side to side like that, though. He knew his youngest brother could be very serious and professional on a rescue. Why Alan never wanted to display that side of himself around him, Scott had no idea. Even Gordon played dumb less often.
"Right, then. Go suit up. We arrive at the danger zone in two-and-a-quarter hours."
A little less, actually. With skill honed by years of flight time and simulation, Scott Tracy maneuvered Thunderbird 3 within fiveyards of Kuiper's largest fragment, expertly matching speed and angular momentum.
The ship tumbled and sparked in eerie silence, sliced cleanly in half. The other piece, flashing like a strobe where her spinning hull caught the sun, was already almost a hundred yards away. Soon she'd be lost entirely, another bit of shining junk swallowed by the void.
When noisy pumps had evacuated airlock three, and the outer hatch slid open, Alan activated his suit's thruster pack. He wore it like a school book bag, only without, you know, books. The maneuvering system was beyond cool; it was joy-stick operated, like his videogame set-up, back home. Floating there, he felt like a housefly in an empty soda can, except that the opening showed burning-white stars and dense blackness, not someone's mouth. Lucky thing, too.
Alan had to squash a joyous whoop, when his helmet display turned green. At long last, time to go! Pressing his right-hand trigger, the boy surged through the open hatch and out into space. He wasn't tethered, though he certainly carried one. No sense dragging a line that could tangle on something, right? Instead, he depended on his own eyesight, GPS and good sense.
There wasn't much to look at but wheeling stars, at first. Then a needle-shaped derelict hove into view. Kuiper, or most of her.
The light in space was like nowhere else; absolutely pure, and diamond hard. Shadows were wicked sharp, cast by sun and Earth-shine, both. The heavens seemed to revolve around him, as Alan spun weightlessly right along with Kuiper and Thunderbird 3.
He could hear himself breathing inside the helmet; hear the hiss and click of all the little mechanisms that were keeping him alive, out here.
He thought of John, wondering if his astronaut older brother got as big a charge out of all this as he did.
Nah… 'Jack Frost' had to have a good beer-buzz just to crack a smile, much less enjoy himself on the Mars mission… which he'd run into some trouble on, supposedly. But Alan didn't want to think about that.
Instead, with feather light taps to trigger and joy stick, he crossed from Thunderbird 3 (blazing scarlet behind him, with the Earth just peeping over her hull) to Kuiper's torn midsection. Easier to get in, that way.
Wires spat and sparked. Undulating globs of amber fluid showered away from slashed lines. He drifted into an open cabin, avoiding most of the floating junk. From the look of things, he was in the crew living area. At least, he thought he recalled something like that from the diagrams.
There was a shoe… a package of raisins, or something… and a photograph. Alan fielded that one, angling it with big, padded gloves so that light caught the image. For a long, quiet moment, Alan found himself peering through helmet glass at a snapshot of four people. A man, a woman and two boys; they were standing in front of some snowy mountains, looking kind of shy.
…and someone here, in this section or the one drifting slowly away, belonged to them. All at once, Alan's mood changed. Stuffing the picture in one of his belt compartments, the boy got back to business.
He triggered more little bursts of air, moving carefully around some bobbing exercise equipment and a mattress. The thruster-pack had a limited supply of compressed air, so he had to make each zig and zag count. Not so easy, in a zero-gee environment.
Where the sunlight penetrated, the compartment was brighter than noonday in southern California, and navigation was a matter of choosing his next safe handhold. Then, Alan came to the dark part. No sunlight, no nothing. Not even the ship's emergency lamps were on; just a few status lights blinking helplessly away to no-one.
Alan switched on his helmet beam, illuminating a narrow swathe of empty cabin.
"You in yet?" Scott's voice in his helmet, sudden and sharp, nearly made Alan soil his shorts. "Alan? Report your progress, please. Radiation's playing hell with the scanners. They keep blinking out."
"Wha…? Oh, yeah. Sorry, Scott. I'm in the living area, I think, approaching one of the hatches. It's a mess in here, for real. Kinda hard to see, too."
At the far end of the truncated cabin lay a hatch. Closed and sealed, it had probably saved the crew's lives. Scott resumed talking, his voice sounding so whisper-close that Alan wanted to shove him aside.
"Okay. According to TinTin, we've got four victims on the flight deck, two more compartments away. She's got some kind of miracle touch with this equipment… shereads it to saythe crew's showing very little activity. They're not going to be much help, Al."
"Umm…" there was a problem with that. Alan had assumed that the victims would be alert and cooperative, needing only a rescue ship to pick them up.
"Are they even wearing space suits, guys?"
There followed a pause, which to Alan Tracy felt interminable as an ice age. Then,
"Most likely. Again, without direct communication, and with so much equipment jammed in around the cosmonauts, it's hard to be sure. They're up front, though. Just open the hatch, then shut it behind you before opening the next. Just like the simulator, Alan. And remember to brace. Decompression 'll blast you back out of the ship, otherwise."
Sure. No problem.
Bobbing slightly in the grip of emptiness and dark, Alan reached for the hatch-side control panel. The status light was amber. Meaning…? Not much air? No solicitors? Missing half the ship? Another thought occurred, then; a terrible one. He drew his hand back.
"Scott…?"
"Go ahead, Alan."
Time was so short. The other piece of Kuiper tumbled further away with every second. By contrast, her forward section had slowed, tugged inward by Thunderbird 3's very slight gravitational pull.
"It's just… what if the other hatch isn't closed? What if I open the door, and all the air comes out, and no-one's wearing a space suit, and they all die?"
There was a definite tinge of hysteria to the teenager's voice. In the cockpit of Thunderbird 3, both rescuers hunched closer to their instrument panels, deeply worried. TinTin decided to try something.
Lowering her clumsy barriers, the girl reached out for Alan's mind, meaning to calm him. But he was over fifty feet away, and moving that far past her own body was confusing.
Suddenly, there were no apparent limits to her senses. She could see-hear-feel-touch-penetrate throughout an explosively growing sphere.
Warmth… plastic… metal… cloth… Scott… fluid… dead-cold… ship… Alan… smoke… people
It went on, TinTin nearly losing herself in vertigo and freezing blackness. She had to pull back, find the tiny, fetal thing at the center of all this painful awareness, before she vanished utterly.
With a little cry, TinTin collapsed to the deck. Confused, Scott levered himself out of the pilot's seat and limped to her side. Helping the woozy girl to her feet, he guided her back to the tech console.
"TinTin, are you all right?" He had no idea what she'd tried, for the girl had kept her growing power hidden from everyone but Gordon. All Scott saw was an unexplained fainting spell.
Matters quickly grew even harrier. An alarm sounded. Alan's heart was racing, his breath coming harder. He was beginning to panic, learning that there was a jaw-dropping gulf between simulation and reality, high scores and lives. Scott hit his wrist comm, awkwardly patting TinTin's back at the same time.
"Alan! Al, can you hear me? Calm down. Deep breaths… that's better. Listen, there's a situation aboard ship I've got to deal with, but it won't take a minute. In the meantime: stick to the script! Open hatch, go through, close hatch, over to the next, open that one, then tether and retrieve the victims. Got it?"
Feeling scared, and very lost, Alan nodded. He swallowed hard before managing a weak smile.
"Yeah… sorry. M' okay, Scott."
Like the ocean rescues all over again, only worse, because this one was on him. If he opened the hatch, and people were sucked out to die, it would be his fault; his finger that had pressed the button. But… he couldn't just float there, doing nothing. Reaching for the hatch-override switch, Alan changed comm channels.
"Hey… Gordon?"
It was a few moments before his brother responded. Earth was quite far away, peeping in and out through the torn end, as Kuiper whirled through space.
"Thunderbird 4. Fire away, Alan."
Alan had initiated the manual hatch-open sequence. A matter of punching in a five-digit access code provided by Brains. The square, silvery keys were small, his gloved fingers big and stiff.
Like the simulator. Nothing he couldn't handle…
"Just wondering what you're up to down there, Bro," he said aloud, very glad for something else to focus on. More minutes passed, slow as a hung jury.
"Thanks f'r the ring," Gordon came back at last, sounding normal, if kind of busy. "Nothin' much on this end but a bit of house cleanin', I'm afraid. Yourself?"
The hatch status light changed from amber to red. Sensing hard vacuum on Alan's side, the door's little computer wanted the compartment sealed. Again, Alan punched in the override command. (Knocked, too, just in case.)
"Wishing for a locksmith! Man, this is tough! Couldn't get you to, like, toss me your Swiss Army knife, could I?"
"Brilliant notion. At this point, I'd barter a lorry piled with knives f'r a damn weldin' torch, and feel I'd got a bargain!"
The door stopped arguing with him, switched back to amber, and began its countdown.
"That bad, huh?" And then, because the hatch was about to open, and he had to keep talking, he added, "When this is over, Gordon, you feel like, y' know… going to Tahiti again, to catch some surf, or something?"
Alan braced himself, seizing hold of a bulkhead strap. Just in time, just before the hatch opened, his brother replied.
"Good thought. I'm well up f'r it, after all this. Might have t' bring a lass, though."
A slim crack appeared between hatch and frame. Wind like an ax blade sliced through the narrow opening, smashing Alan against the bulkhead. He shielded his face plate with an upraised arm, battered by wind and debris.
As the hatch yawned wider, more air rushed forth, carrying with it a blizzard of manuals and equipment. There was sound again, too; the air first roaring, then grumbling, then dropping to a faint, regretful sigh before absolute silence clamped down.
Shaken, Alan peeked into the next compartment. No cosmonauts. Scott had said they were up front… Gaining confidence, Alan propelled himself through the hatch with a flick of his wrist, maintaining his grip on the metal door frame.
"Works for me," he told Gordon, meaning the tag-along. "Got yourself a new girlfriend, I take it?"
As Scott had instructed, Alan shut the door behind him, then played his helmet lamp around the new compartment. It looked like a washer on spin dry, full of ricocheting junk. No noise, though, even when something really big hit the bulkhead.
Lining up with the far hatch, Alan counted to three, then kicked away from his perch, tucking in as much as the pressure suit would allow. While he could push things out of his way, Alan, too, would be sent flying, in the wrong direction. Sort of 3-D billiards, with himself as the cue ball. Pass.
"More than a girlfriend," his brother answered. "That is t' say… she's everythin' I'd have put together, were Idesignin' a female, includin' all the bits I'd never have considered."
"Awesome."
Drifting across the cabin, which seemed to be a laboratory, or work room of some sort, Alan narrowly avoided a careening refrigerator cabinet. The corner with the ESA decal almost hit him, but the young astronaut was able to squeeze himself down a little tighter and cannonball past it.
"So, does this uber-babe have a name? Or a twin sister, maybe?"
Now, for the other hatch. Scott checked in… some kind of TinTin problem, apparently. But, wasn't that just like a girl, to crack under pressure? No wonder Gordon had lost interest.
"Anika," his brother came back, after cursing like a Royal Marine at a particularly obstinate slab of wreckage. "…her name, that is. I'll have t' find out, about possible sisters. Isn't that against th' law, though? Two brothers marryin' a set of twins? The little ones'd be extremely related, wouldn't they? And awfully confused?"
Alan grinned, punching in the second code as he tapped out another warning.
"Dude, that'd be awesome! Our kids'd be double cousins, with three heads and stuff! You've gotta marry her, and I've got to get her sister. It's a lock, man. Keep Virge company, know what I mean?"
The second hatch opened up, and once again air shrieked past him, pelting Alan with detritus and cosmonauts. The first guy was barely conscious, flailing slightly in an effort to stop himself being swept away. Alan caught at him, holding fast until pressure in the two cabins equalized. There were three others on the flight deck, all in orange pressure suits and helmets. One was holding on to a seat strap, the other two bouncing around from bulkhead to instrument panel like a pair of pin balls. Alan managed to catch and halt them before their helmets cracked, or they broke their necks.
According to his suit's environment monitor, the atmosphere was poisoned with fumes and cooling smoke. An electrical fire, most likely. One they'd beaten out, but not before the canned air was irreparably fouled.
On top of all this, their comm system had shorted out. Fortunately, Alan had a slate and marker. Sometimes, it was the cheap little Wal-Mart stuff that saved your butt.
Using the slate, he gave his plan to those alert enough to care. All were agreed, so he tethered the cosmonauts together with a polymer line, putting the least responsive victims between the two conscious ones. At the very end was the mission commander, Irina Porizkova. As 'Tail-end Charlie', it was her job to shepherd her crewmates around dangerous obstacles. Alan would provide the motive power.
He was about to set off, when Scott's voice erupted in his helmet, again.
"Alan, what's the hold up? We've got…"
"Scott, chill, okay? We're going as fast as we can, out here. Two of these guys are, like, hyperbaric or whatever."
"Hypoxic. FAB, Alan. Just, hurry. The tail section will be out of range in less than thirty minutes. Out of range if we want to make it home, that is."
…But, hey; no pressure.
"Okay. I got it! Time's a-wasting, etc."
Scott chose not to answer. Helping TinTin back to her seat and then calling Alan had triggered a series of spasms. It hurt like hell, and he didn't quite trust his voice in the midst of one.
The girl, sensing how badly things were about to go wrong, decided to try another tack. She took a deep breath, only a little shaky, and clutched at the arms of her seat. Then, keeping herself focused, tight as a beam of light, TinTin put forth her mind. This time, she reached for Kuiper's wildly tumbling rear section.
Odd thing, though… her mind had as much trouble slowing the massive vehicle as her hands would have. She felt like a ghost trying to halt a runaway dump-truck. While she could penetrate the thing… feel it… affecting its state of motion was another matter, entirely. It rumbled right through her foggy grasp.
Biting her lip, TinTin focused tighter. There were two people trapped within, their air contaminated and thin. She could sense the dying-coal glimmer of their thoughts. TinTin tightened her grasp still further, trying desperately to slow the craft's doomed flight.
"TinTin…?" Someone seemed to be calling her from the bottom of a very deep well, at a time when she couldn't afford distractions. She felt her grip slipping. Hull, rivets, wiring, engines, people… too much to hold on to. Too big.
"Scott, s'il te plait… je ne…"
Like Sisyphus in Hades, TinTin was struggling with a boulder, and she couldn't hold on.