Nearly there, honest. (Had to edit... sorry!)
11
Princeton University, Holder Hall, a somewhat redesigned dorm room-
John adjusted a few things. A connection here, a chipset there, before sitting back to examine his treasured handiwork. The most visible portion of it, anyway.
In truth, the computer took up most of the space in his own dorm room, a fair chunk of the connecting lavatory, and all of the room next door (he'd hacked a few former student files to rent that one, too. Quieter, that way, and he really did need the space).
Even with miniaturization and modern technology, as Ken Flowers would have put it: this sucker was huge. Ate power like crazy, too, but that wasn't a problem, really. He'd shuffled things around to where Tracy Aerospace wound up paying the bills. Didn't suppose his father would ever notice what amounted to missing pocket change… and didn't much care, either.
Whatever. He was stalling, and he knew it. Outside, beyond the drawn shades, it was snowing. Big, clumpy flakes; the kind that would stick. Inside, John Tracy had to pull together whatever passed for his courage, and turn this thing on.
He leaned back in his work station chair, and heaved a quiet sigh. On the student desk before him sat the flat monitor screen, and a row of linked boxes. Five out of eighty-seven, in all, only a few of which were at all conventional.
He'd come here to learn, for a very specific reason. Not for grades, or degrees, or friends. Not even Drew. Though… he'd chosen to remain on campus that Christmas, rather than going home. Not for her, exactly. Just… around her. Mostly.
As their encounters began to occur at a rate higher than statistical likelihood predicted, he'd upgraded Anarchick from 'associate' to 'friend'.
(N + 4 incidents per day, N being equal to the number of classes they shared. That was his algorithm. Exceed that, and you weren't just randomly bumping into him… you were looking to.)
What came after 'friend' he didn't feel ready for. Glum recollections of the damn medical encyclopedia, blushing health teachers and late fall on the ranch weren't exactly encouraging. The bulls and stallions seemed pretty enthusiastic… made a lot of noise, anyhow… but the females just sort of put up with them. If there was a lesson for John in all this, he wasn't sure what it was.
Ken hadn't had any answers, either. All he'd done, when questioned, was shrug, spit tobacco juice and hand John a beer.
Not that all this navel-gazing was solving anything. He had a serious question to answer, one that had torn him for the last four years.
John sat forward in his chair again, half listening to the soft hiss and splat of snow against the window, the droning hum of fish tank and refrigerator. People were calling out and stomping around in the hallways, but they barely registered. Not important.
Reaching out, John put a hand on the start button, the one that linked all the boxes with a pile of super-cooled components in the chipped bathtub.
(Shouldn't cause a blackout this time… hopefully.)
But he hesitated, still, staring into the monitor's impassively blank face. You couldn't fail, if you didn't try. But… he didn't really have a choice, did he? He had to find out, and he couldn't do it alone. Oh, well. No time like the present…
He'd started to press the button, when Drew kicked the door open and walked on in, snow melting on her black hair, green mesh grocery bag in hand.
"Hey, loser," she greeted him, tossing her bag on one of the bunks. Dressed for the season, she had on a big black jersey with a skeletal and Santa-robed 'Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come' painted on the front. Very festive. Red lipstick, though, and only slightly smudged makeup. In a rare mood, apparently.
She crossed the dorm to his chair, resting both hands on its padded back, hard, so that she nearly toppled him. Again.
He hated it when she did that. No, wait… it was something she did with him that… he was pleased happened often enough to be irritated by? But that didn't make any sense, either. Females, John Tracy decided, were inherently confusing. Nature of the beast.
"Well," Drew quipped, slapping at the side of his head, "I can tell from your cheery poker-face that you're glad to see me. Let's see… 'Hi there, Drew. How are you? How was the line at the W? Can I offer you something?' "
Right. He got up, and she almost fell when his counterbalancing weight left the seat.
"Ow! Thanks, Tracy. 'Preciate it, really."
Then, rubbing at a scuff on her inked and self-scratched arms,
"Where are you going?"
"To the ice box," he explained, patiently. "You said you wanted a …"
"No," Drew shook her head. "I just wanted you to ask me if I wanted anything. Never mind. If I'd known how hard you'd be to housebreak, Tracy, I never would have taken you in."
Okay, it was his room. Before he could point this out, however, she'd moved on. Examining the set-up on his study desk, Anarchick groused,
"You still playing with this thing? Fish or cut bait, fella. All that processing power's nothing but a waste of time, otherwise."
Rather than stand irresolutely in front of the refrigerator cube, feeling like a guest in his own dorm, John returned to her side.
"Why's it so important, anyhow?" she persisted, needing to understand.
Tracy shook the pale hair out of his face; gave her a brief, searching glance. She'd have liked to kiss him… grab him by the shoulders and drop one right on him… but he was skittish as a stray kitten, and never picked up on her signals.
"I'm looking for someone," he told her.
"Try the white pages. It's quicker."
He shook his head, quite serious. But then, he nearly always was.
"I told you my mother fell, with the baby. Remember?"
Drew shot him a sarcastic look.
"Uh-huh. And…? But…? Therefore…? You were saying…?"
He ignored her insulting tone, responding to the words, instead.
"And father told us that she let go of the baby when she hit the snow. But that's a damn lie. Therefore, I need to figure out what really happened."
Drew felt her eyebrows climbing.
"Annnd, you know all this… how?"
He considered a moment, seeming to arrive at some kind of major decision. Hard to tell, when he wouldn't look her quite in the eye.
"Okay: couple of years back, I was doing some fence work with Ken Flowers. You don't know him. 5-strand barbed wire, pine logs and pain-in-the-ass staples. The fence, not Ken. Right. So Grandma calls, because the Hardykid fell into a cistern collection hole, at the property line, about a mile and a half north of the access road. We had to help get him out.
"Scott, Rossand Ken went down into the cistern itself, using Kemminger's irrigation tunnel, and Virgil and Granddad dug a second shaft with the rock drill, right below the kid. I went through the shaft to get him, after the drill pulled out. I was sort of thin, back then."
Drew snorted, gave him another cuff that really wanted to be something else.
"Yeah. And you're such a butterball now, Tracy."
"I've gained," he replied with quiet dignity, "two and a half pounds. It's all the snacking."
"Ohhh, boy! Hold me back. Next stop, Weight Watchers."
He looked at her, more or less directly.
"Are you finished?"
Anarchick smiled, head cocked to one side.
"Yeah… for now. But, please," one hand at her chin, pose thoughtful and refined, "carry on, my good man."
"Not much more to tell. I went down the shaft after the kid. It was a tight fit. When I got to the end, I reached up and felt around. Got his legs. His mother was calling down the top of the other hole, to keep him awake. He jerked his legs when I grabbed his ankle, but his mom told him what was going on. Anyway, I got him worked out of the collection hole and into the drill-shaft, then started inching backward with him. You have to use your elbows and scrape with your feet, for that. Sort of uncomfortable. Anyway, about halfway along, the shaft partly collapsed."
He shrugged, went on with his story like he was discussing a Sophomore English project.
"It was dark for awhile, and hard to breathe, but Virgil and Granddad hauled us out. Thing is… He was just this neighbor kid. Nothing special, right? But I didn't let go."
Now, John's beautiful face became cold, his blue-violet eyes hard as flint.
"And she wouldn't have, either. I was stuck in that bore hole like a cork, no air, and the kid was squirming around kicking me, trying to get the dirt off his face, but I didn't let go. My mother would have hung on to Gordon till the end. No matter what. That's how come I know. Father said the baby wasn't found with her, and he's a liar."
And then, once more stoic and withdrawn,
"That's why I need a better computer. To help find my brother… That's all."
Not sure what to say, Drew acted, instead. She stepped forward. No playful cuffs, this time; no slaps or punches. She simply reached him in for a cautious hug. He smelled good. Close-your-eyes-and-bury-your-face kind of good. And he didn't pull away; just sort of reached around and stroked her hair.
There wasn't much trust in Autumn Drew's life, or much affection, either. The fact that Tracy had chosen to stay with her over Christmas, rather than shipping back to whatever big, square, cattle-intensive state he hailed from, both confused and touched her. He might not always know how to express it, but John Tracy was extremely loyal; a very good friend. And, she loved him for it.
"I hope you find him," she whispered softly, tip-toeing up for that kiss.
Tracy Island-
Victoria Tracy had arisen. Slowly, with many a querulous complaint and feeble, shaky step, the old woman hobbled away from her cot. Gennine stared. Was that a stick Grandmother Tracy was leaning upon?
Kyrano gave the infirm old woman a single, contemptuous glance and then, directed from afar, moved away from the door. The men were gone, opportunity before him.
'Do it,' the voice urged, silky and cold; while pain like dirt-crusted talons drove into his aching skull. 'Strike now. Free us both… or, all three… you were meant to rule, Kyrano… not to serve… your daughter to bear kings!'
The icy voice and acidic will twined on, snake-like and choking, limited only by distance.
'Why do you feed the vapid sheep whose throats should be locked in your jaws? Strike now… destroy the females… then call to Thunderbirds 2 and 3, saying thus, and thus...'
The instructions were clear in his head, hiss-whispered confidingly. Kyrano almost giggled aloud.
'They are exhausted,' the voice insinuated. His brother's voice. How Kyrano had missed him…
'They will trust you… follow your commands. Thunderbird 2 into the side of a mountain, Thunderbird 3 so deeply into space that she will never return. Then, Thunderbird 4… wrest control from the desk, and plunge it deep. Let it be crushed beneath dark water, while that within shrieks its last. Do it now…'
What fun. Kyrano wriggled sensuously at the thought of all that pain and fear, at the thought of tasting another's death, then slipping free at the end. Free to strike again.
Young 'Mrs. Tracy' was closest, and the only real threat. The old woman he could pull apart at his leisure. Smiling, Kyrano reached for Gennine, who stepped away with a small, puzzled sound.
Entirely, he failed to notice when the shuffling stopped, the back straightened, and the stick (wielded like a baseball bat in the hands of a major league hitter) whistled through the air. The wooden walking stick struck Kyrano on the back of the head, so hard that he staggered, rubber-legged, still reaching for Gennine.
The younger woman screamed, but to her credit, she also up-ended the heavy brass coffee tray on him, dousing her would-be assailant with scalding hot fluid. Then she flung the tray, cracking Jeff's reeling manservant square on the forehead with it. This time, Kyrano collapsed, his strings cut.
Grandmother Tracy stumped forward, prodding at his twitching form with the stick.
"And stay down, old man!" she snapped, giving him another vicious jab. "The nerve! As if I couldn't do no better than to stand there and watch!"
Gennine reached for the comm switch, but Victoria shook her head.
"No, Gennie-girl. The menfolks is busy, and we can handle this one our own selves. I don't trust this snake futher n' I can throw him, though, and we can't keep bustin' him on the head, neither. You run on downstairs and fetch up all the belts and pantyhose and stretch-cords you can find." Another gesture of the stick, as though shooing Gennine away.
"Git, now! Quick-like!"
Jeff's maybe-wife nodded hurriedly and started to bolt from the auxiliary control office. Then, changing her mind, she darted back. Leaning down, she kissed the old woman's cheek, then scurried off about her mission.
"Huh," Grandmother Tracy snorted. "Not like I'm a hero, or nuthin'. Just because you been around the sun a time or two, don't mean you can't stay ready! Them as forgets that is courtin' grief, is all I got to say."
Space, Thunderbird 3; the cockpit-
Confused and weakened as she was, the whisper found a way inside. Thin and faint, as from great distance and effort, it still compelled her.
'You permit them to use you… to harness your power,' it hissed, like air escaping a punctured space suit. 'You, who should be their mistress.'
A vision came to her then, pale as an image reflected on smoke; five young men, kneeling at her feet, obedient and afraid. But TinTin recoiled, horrified.
"No!" She raged aloud, lashing at the ugly vision. "Get away!"
Scott was utterly baffled. He put a hand on the writhing girl, who seemed about to twist clear of her seat. Squatting down as well as he was able, Scott pulled TinTin into an awkward embrace, thinking to provide comfort. He couldn't know, of course.
'Do it now, my daughter,' the gloating voice hissed, urging her to ignite Thunderbird 3's main engines. 'Let those too weak to save themselves, perish.'
Frantically, sickened by the filthy-cold hand which combed through her thoughts, the girl tried to rebuild her barriers.
"I'm not your daughter!" She howled, a storm of furious tears wetting her face and Scott's shoulder.
'No? Then, dearest one, where is your mother? Why has Kyrano never spoken of her? The weak and cowardly wretch… powerless, pathetic…! Whom do you suppose possessed his mind, the night you were made, my princess?'
"NO!"
Wildly, TinTin lashed out, smashing a doubled fist into Scott's barely-healed abdomen. He crashed to the deck, but the anguished girl didn't see him. Nor did she hear Alan's increasingly puzzled transmissions.
"Hey, Scott? TinTin…? You wanna open the airlock now? Guys…?"
He was trapped outside, between a gutted derelict and a stubbornly sealed hatch. The Earth was blue and beautiful above him, seeming just out of reach amid frozen-white stars.
"Scott? The airlock? These folks are dying out here!"
No response but silence. The Earth glided coolly past him, disappearing behind Alan's string of fading cosmonauts, and Kuiper. Now the sun rose behind Thunderbird 3, fierce and hot.
Alan's faceplate darkened automatically. His pressure suit's cooling fans cut on. Captain Porizkova used her thruster pack to swoop forward. He couldn't see her countenance behind the golden sun-shielding, but she was reaching out for something. The marker and slate, maybe?
Alan pounded upon the hatch, the reaction nearly bouncing him off. Only his safety-clipped tether saved them all from a dark and endless drift.
The female cosmonaut was nearly beside him, now, dragging the others around in a slow half-circle. Distractedly, Alan fumbled the slate from its belt hook, meanwhile switching comm frequencies.
"Gordon?" He called, willing his voice not to shake.
Curacao, the troubled waters around Sea Base Alpha-
He'd made furious headway on the wreckage, mostly done, when something new appeared on Thunderbird 4's sonar screen. Not the…? No. Looked more like a sub, to judge by cruising speed and configuration. Engine and screw noise sounded vaguely familiar…
Quickly, Gordon thumbed over his mental list of submarine types, seeking a match. Didn't seem to be WASP… There! American Barracuda class, bottom mapping 'research vessel'.
About to hail her, he was interrupted by a voice over the comm. The accent was mid-western, the tone briskly companionable.
"Thunderbird 4, this is US Navy submarine SSN 463, the Requin, Michael Parks commanding. I've been instructed by the Department of the Navy to place my vessel at your command, Sir… oh, and… Chief Alvarez says 'hello'."
Chief Alvarez? Gordon smiled. Regular up-and-comer, Davy Alvarez, and most welcome, besides. If only he'd heard that Murphy was aboard, his day would have been complete.
"Requin from Thunderbird 4. Good t' see you lads, up-start Chiefs an' all. Not armed, I suppose?"
She looked like an innocent research vessel, but, knowing the United States Navy, as he did…
Another slash of plasma, and the last of the towergroaned free, trailing droplets of glowing metal as it twisted down and away. Meanwhile, the new submarine showed dark and sleek as a moray eel in the spattering-white torch light.
"Armed? Not officially, no. WorldGov frowns on that kind of thing, Thunderbird 4. Not to say that a few of the boys might not have packed along a 'fish' or two, for, say… recreational purposes."
All he needed to know.
"No doubt," Gordon replied, cutting off the torch and moving away from the platform. Behind him, the first of the Tigersharks and rescue vessels made ready to dock. The dolphin pod rejoined him, zipping back from crag and surface. They were still vulnerable, though.
"Pity, really, as there's this rare and exotic creature sneakin' about somewhere, that it'd be a terrible shame if somethin' permanent was to happen to."
After tracing his way through that wooly tangle of negative phrasing, Commander Parks responded,
"Got it, 4. Wildlife enthusiasts that we are, my crew and I might just do a little creature-watching. Like you say… be a real shame if something previously unknown to science went all belly-up messy on us."
"Man after my own heart," Gordon replied feelingly. God, he loved the US Navy. "Give 'junior' my best regards."
It was then, too far away and too late to act, that the young aquanaut received Alan's transmission.
Returning from Caracas, Venezuela, Thunderbird 2-
Virgil was desperately tired, anyway. Despite the jets of cold air blown upon the back of his neck, and all the 'nodding off' alarms, it was growing very difficult for the pilot to focus. It didn't take much, really, just a whispered suggestion or two, to keep him from seeing the altimeter.