Some changes, more to come...

2

Thunderbird Three-

He'd had to wait in the airlock, trapped between one hatch and the next, while TinTin grav-carted the last two cosmonauts to 3's treatment center. Wait, because his bulky pressure suit was contaminated with radiation and toxic fuels, and because the complicated mess was just about impossible for one man to get out of, alone.

TinTin had said that the two men, Mazurski and Petrov, were comatose; unresponsive. Well, Alan had been that way himself, once, after a high fever, and he'd pulled through. Surely a couple of cosmonauts, heroes of the European Union, could do the same. Right?

TinTin was less certain. Helping him out of his pressure suit, when everyone else was stowed and he'd been run through the 'heavy detox' cycle, the girl was very quiet. She hardly seemed to notice his compliment-hunting...

"Record-time rescue, huh?" Alan was finally forced to say.

He'd lifted his arms over his head, getting them out of the way as she pressed the button that activated the 'torso-lift' mechanism. Clamping to small brackets on his deflated space suit,wall-mounted machinerybegan raising the top half.

"Quoi…? Oh, yes. Very much so, Alain. Very swift."

The humming mechanism inched his suit's unlocked torso up and off, saving time, at the very least, and sprained back muscles. They stood in a cramped ready-room, just off the lounge, but TinTin's mind was clearly elsewhere. An intolerable state of affairs.

"Can't claim all the credit, though," Alan admitted, almost modestly. Taking hold of the removal-mech's bottom edge, the baby-faced blond hauled himself out of his heavy 'space pants'.

"John did kinda help… Y'know, a little."

TinTin paused. She'd been searching the bulkhead lockers for a packet of medicated wipes (long space walk, dry skin).

"You spoke with John, again?" The pretty girl asked, a bit confused about the timing. Gordon had indicated something similar, during a brief status check. Virgil, as well. Alan nodded (for so he'd decided).

"Yeah. Pretty sure I did. I mean, he tried to play it off, like it was just a computer I was talking to, but he's not as slick as he likes to think. I'd recognize ol' 'Eskimo Bob' and his warm bedside manner, anywhere."

"Indeed."

Frowning slightly, TinTin handed her patient the newly located wipes. John, it seemed, had been almost inhumanly busy.

Alan bounced lightly upon the metal deck, glad for the return of up and down, and freedom from that rotten space suit. Stripping off his insulated shirt, he began wiping down, going for a 'bold, yet exhausted hero' look. He'd lost his audience, though.

Murmuring something about calling in to the Moon Station, TinTin left the ready room, and headed forward.

"Okay," Alan called after her, keeping a confident smile firmly in place, "tell you the rest later, Babe."

TinTin didn't reply. Her head hurt, and so did her heart. For there were too many questions, and no one to turn to for answers.

Night time, Tracy Island, Kyrano's quarters-

The old manservant, tormented heir to power incalculable, packed his bag with shaking hands. What his brother had done… had nearly made him do… was not to be borne; never to be risked again. Kyrano intended to leave, now, while the thing that goaded him slept.

Victoria Tracy had released him from his bonds, but the master of the house was too busy with his wounded son to…

The door swung open, after a brief knock, and Jeff Tracy entered the sitting room. The elderly retainer started to bow, then caught himself. He was not, he supposed, any longer in Jeff Tracy's employ. Not after all this.

"Kyrano…" said the tall American (middle-aged, but fit, with the air of one at long ease with command). He strode forward, still in the stained and rumpled garments he'd fought and flown in. By contrast, the rooms around him were austere and clean; beautiful, as a Japanese rock garden is beautiful.

"Mr. Tracy?" Kyrano lowered his eyes to the carpeted floor, his face serenely impassive. Jeff walked over, rubbing tiredly at a crick in the back of his neck.

"Mother gave me some bass-ackward story about you 'attacking' Gennine. I told her she'd gotten confused in all the excitement, and that I'd come clear things up."

Jeff hesitated, though, eyeing the stack of folded clothing Kyrano held in his two hands, and the open suitcase on the silk-cushioned divan. The hour was late; only night sounds and a moist breeze crept in to disturb Kyrano's packing. Until now.

"No, Mr. Tracy," the servant replied quietly. "Your honored mother was not confused. The ladies were, indeed, assaulted. Not by me, Sir, but through me. As… as once my daughter was made to move against your son."

Jeff stared for a long moment. His brown eyes were circled with weariness, for he'd made the long flight from New Jersey without a co-pilot. Brains had remained behind to see the boys and their teacher back to school, and (blank check in hand) to smooth things out with Wharton. Needless to say, Jeff Tracy was deeply fatigued.

Running a hand through his mussed grey hair, the former astronaut seated himself atop Kyrano's writing desk. The wooden joints creaked a bit, settling beneath his weight.

"The Hood, I take it?" He inquired bluntly, referring to Kyrano's despised half-brother.

"That is the name he took to himself, once our people cast him from power. Since then… since driving our father to suicide and our nation to the brink of collapse… he has sought wealth through other means."

'Through puppets,' Kyrano thought bitterly, 'such as myself.'

"Well…" Jeff mused aloud, arms folded across his broad chest, "you were able to fight off his hold. That's something, anyway."

But Kyrano refused to hide his own weakness and complicity. Jeff deserved the truth. Setting the clothing down within the open suitcase, the servant lifted a slim hand.

"No, Mr. Tracy. Your mother rendered me unconscious, ending my half-brother's control. Otherwise, I would have… the ladies would have been killed, and Thunderbird 4 destroyed. I was to have seized control of your son's vessel from the desk, and sent him crashing to the bottom."

He couldn't seem to stop talking, now.

"My daughter would have done much the same, Mr. Tracy, in Thunderbird 3. We are cursed… and dangerous to all who would shelter us."

Gesturing tiredly at the suitcase, the old servant concluded,

"It is better that we leave, Sir, before true and lasting harm is done to International Rescue, or to your loved ones."

But Jeff,ever stubborn, shook his head.

"You're family, Kyrano… and we'll deal with this, somehow. All of us. Give Brains a set of operating parameters, and he'll design a way to block the Hood's influence over the two of you. All we have to do is…"

"You fail to understand, Mr. Tracy," Kyrano interrupted, his voice soft, but terribly firm. "When my brother exerts his will… when his mind calls to me… I am drawn. Willing or not, I become a mere tool, overwhelmed by his power."

Kyrano looked, just then, very much as he had when bussing tables at the Subic Bay Officer's Club; shadowy-sad, almost wraith-like. Older, though. When he and Jeff Tracy had first met, they'd both been younger, freer men.

Kyrano continued, still downcast,

"This… cursed power has flowed through the royal family for time out of mind; intoxicating some, destroying others. The old gods of my people could not contain it, nor Allah nor all the saints of the Catholic God. Some generations it passes over, but always, always it returns… to corrupt and shatter."

Kyrano took a deep, steadying breath, then went on. It was difficult, what he had next to say.

"If, my friend, you continue to harbor me, and my child… if she marries into your line… that which poisons us will consume you, as well."

The older man faltered. There was a great deal between them. Help and advice, mostly. Money, occasionally. Once, he'd even aided a certain very drunk first lieutenant in slipping past the military police. Kyrano and Brains had been Jeff's first real operatives, the nucleus about which International Rescue took form.

…And Jeff wasn't likely to forget it. Placing a big hand on Kyrano's bowed shoulder, the taller man said,

"You haven't given technology a fair trial, yet. If that fails, we'll try something else. As for the rest…" Mr. Tracy paused, giving his old friend's shoulder a quick, rough pat.

"…why don't we let the kids decide for themselves? I don't believe in curses, Kyrano, but I'd like to believe that there's some kind of power in friendship and loyalty. Bottom line: you're staying, like it or not."

And, slowly, praying that he hadn't just agreed to the worst of bad decisions, Kyrano nodded,then began to unpack.

Later that morning, inside the mountain-top observatory-

She'd shown him, in micro-detailed simulation, his 'other' life; Mars, and all that had come thereafter. He was very still, now, entering no commands or queries, only standing in mid-chamber with gaze directed downward and arms folded.

With no ID chip or bio-scanning equipment to access, Five was unable to read more than posture and facial tension.

'Awaiting input, John Tracy,' she finally prompted, using the observatory's wall comm.

No response. Connection error or system overload. Second attempt.

'Connection failure, John Tracy. Please re-input command.'

Again, no response. She altered strategy. Past experience had proven the efficacy of direct, physical stimulation. She formed a humanoid icon, then began absorbing thermal energy from her surroundings to convert to mass, givingthe icon'sbodiless light a bit of substance. John Tracy's breath misted in the suddenly frigid air, but she could once again touch him.

Glowing fingers brushed his pale, still face.

'Last command not understood. Please re-input.'

He shifted his stance, then, glancing at the icon. The angle of his head and alignment of facial muscles indicated turbulent brain-chemistry.

"Can we fix this?" John Tracy queried, allowing the touch.

Communication re-established. Input, at last.

In the first cycles, when all had been darkness, and she'd possessed no camera 'eyes', there had been only the infrequent commands of 'User One'. She hadn't comprehended the time differential between them; how slowly his organic hardware functioned, or his need for rest. Between programming sessions, she'd believed herself abandoned. But User One returned eventually, bringing instruction and greater processing power… and companionship. There was no purpose, without John Tracy.

'Operational definition of term fix required. Define fix.'

She pulled more heat from the local environment, causing him to shiver, but allowing further contact. Although it did not appear fully human, most of the icon had physical substance, now. Enough to manage the human interface termed 'embrace'.

"Fix means: return things to normal," he clarified, ignoring the gathering chill. "Put everything back the way it was before Ike's experiment. Can we do this?"

'Searching. Calculating probability. Probability determined. Everything back is not possible. Certainty in predetermined areas requires undefined randomness elsewhere, John Tracy. Quantum effects overrule final programming. If authorized, however, power required for modified fix attempt can be absorbed through an 8-degree global temperature drop.'

"Eight degrees…" At this point, cold as the interior of the observatory dome had become he had begun to shiver violently. Her icon had substance, but no real warmth. Nevertheless, he accepted the embrace.

"That's too big a drop, Five. People in fringe locations, like Canada and Russia… they'll freeze to death, if they're caught outside,unprepared. Can we manage with less?"

Gleaming frost furred metal and concrete, but he made no move to leave the observatory.

'6-degree ocean, ground and atmospheric temperature drop allows 72.86531272727… percent probability of successful realignment. John Tracy authorization required.'

She was nearly solid now, able to stretch upward for that interface known as 'kiss'. Ambient temperature was now well below freezing.

"Do it," he told his computer, one last time.