Small, vital edit. More to come, probably...

9

Thunderbird 7-

The sensation of lofty speed was so smooth, so utterly noiseless, as to be dream-like; one of those heady night-visions that dips you in and out amid clouds and stars. The kind that ends when you fall from bed.

Above them, blue sky flickered and faded to sudden black. Below them, Tracy Island shrank away in frenetic reverse. Landscape to island to volcanic dot, then white-streaked ocean and curving horizon.Fifteen seconds, tops.

Alan clutched at his padded armrests, heart hammering, breath caught midway between terrified shriek and ecstatic laughter. The Tracy Building, in Hong Kong, had a magnetic bullet elevator that was fast… but nothing like this.

"Dude…," Alan gasped, when at last he could speak, "you could make serious money with this thing at a, like, theme park."

"Absolutely…" Gordon agreed blurrily, "first in th' queue f'r tickets, my word on it."

He didn't look so good, though. Behind him, Fermat was almost too awed to speak, repeating very quietly,

"H- how did… he do all of… th- this?"

Not everyone was so thrilled by the ride. TinTin merely shook her head, lips slightly pursed. The technology and power she'd just witnessed were nearly unfathomable… inexplicable. Where had it come from? She didn't feel entirely comfortable raising questions, though. Not here.

Up front, Alan felt the spacecraft's artificial gravity shift as Thunderbird 7 adjusted herself to meet the demands of orbital flight. A neutronium-hard, soap-bubble thin film had grown over the forward view port; like an inner eyelid, almost. Meanwhile, micro-thrusters budded out of the hull, ready to propel 7 in whichever direction her pilot indicated.

From her console, TinTin input the signal's coordinates: halfway around the world in terms of distance and seeming origin, though not bounced via satellites or atmospheric interface. Rather, the faint, backward transmission had simply passed through the planet like a laser through air… as though the Earth didn't even exist. Odd.

Responding to Gordon's touch, Thunderbird 7 reoriented herself, aiming along the curve of the Earth toward morning, and the signal's incept point. Stick and throttle shifted slightly in his tightening grip. Readouts migrated along the instrument panel, nudging into view. Once again, not much like the simulations, especially when a second, overhead port opened in the hull.

A bit off-putting, but Hackenbacker surely knew what he was about, and didn't all new technology seem a trifle sinister, at first? The ID chips, rescue craft and even Braman had rubbed folk the wrong way, initially. And Thunderbird 7 was truly one-of-a-kind; a technological marvel.

Now, deep within her drive system, nested dark energy spheres began snapping out of existence. An infinite number grew infinitesimally small, until what remained was no longer enough to shield her quark-matter heart. Raw, savage power jetted forth, was channeled like a trio of solar flares. Thunderbird 7 and her occupants were hurled around the Earth in a widening spiral, making several complete circuits in less time than it took to gasp aloud.

Induced magnetic repulsion had put them in orbit; pin-like jets of freed quark-matter took them the rest of the way.

TinTin's coordinates slung them past a shrinking, Doppler-streaked Earth to a jagged rent in space, a starless void barely larger than the ship, itself. With no time to react, no way to avoid the plunge, Alan and the rest could only shut their eyes and brace. Then, they were in.

At one moment, every sense and fiber exploded with input. At the next, all was silence, peace, and blank white emptiness. There came a reversed, 'combed-through' feeling… more confusing than painful. Closed eyelids failed to conceal an upside-down, smoldering Earth, spinning backward… set amid bottomless dark stars on a field of new-fallen space. Their time, once slow as toothpaste, was violently altered.

Thunderbird 7 shuddered and warped around them, surviving what no other vessel could have. Changing, but remaining whole, she somehow defended those within her from being to torn to tiny, sparking bits. They were too busy being sick to grasp the magnitude of what they'd passed through, however. That would come later. Normalcy returned almost unnoticed, space coalescing like a shy mist in a universe 180 degrees removed from their own.

World Space Agency listening post, OWS-

That miraculous signal, again… but stronger, this time. Not reversed, or broken. Before, it had seemed to come from someplace terribly distant. Now it was close, drawing nearer at impossible speed.

Between one thing and another he'd been injured. Pretty severely, Matt suspected, though it was hard to be sure. Certainty had gone the way of memory and vision, and the use of his broken right arm. He tried not to think too much about what his body and bio-med sensors were telling him, any more than he dwelt on the chilling silence from Earth, WSA or the Moon. No need.

His orbital home spoke loudly enough, with each groan and rumbling shudder, each desolate blast of the master alarm. He'd had to cut the thing off manually, after putting the fires out… but the worst seemed to be over. Someone had finally responded. Help was on its way.

He floated by the main comm panel, tethered to a bulkhead brace, seeing nothing but grayish fog and fitful, winking lights. Then it came again, in a voice young and deeply concerned:

"Orbital Weather Station, from Thunderbird 7. We have you in sight. You still with us, Matt?"

Thunder-what?

Pulling away his oxygen mask, Captain Tracy responded,

"Copy that, 7. Thanks for coming out. Docking hatch on the Canuck module still works, I think. Can't miss it… big red maple leaf. And you, uh… might want to bring your gas masks. Air quality's a little low." To say the least. Chemical extinguishers and dense smoke had made the interior of his station resemble a scene from hell.

This time, it was the French girl who replied, her voice serious, and… Matt jerked violently backward, sending himself snapping to the end of his tether, then back again. For just an instant, he'd felt something like a touch… but not physically. Most of the pain he was in vanished at once, making it easier to work. Not coincidentally, so did his memory of the weird contact.

He responded to the girl's request almost before she posed it, feeling around for the C-module airlock extension switch.

"Have you, please, a method for extending your boarding hatch, Monsieur? And perhaps to illuminate the hull lightings, as well?"

"That's affirm, Miss. Lights and welcome mat, coming right up."

He found the deep-space radar screen and counted leftward 3 switches, seeing in his mind's eye the entire control panel. What was it Pete had told them all, just before…?

'Tracy could run this thing blindfolded, with both hands tied!'

God… he'd never expected to have to prove it.

A cautiously toggled switch sparked once, then decided to do its job. Outside, if all was functioning properly (?) the lights on the Canadian Module would be flickering on. So far, so good…

Until a sudden, shrill beep from the master control panel informed him that he'd have to manage his end of the docking maneuvers, manually. Matt fought the urge to curse aloud, or give in. Even with the station's artificial gravity and climate shut down, there wasn't enough power to remote-operate the airlocks. Time to dig a little deeper, and switch plays.

"Okay," he announced, after pulling the O2 away, again, "porch light's on. Give me a sec to get to the door, and I'll let you guys in."

So saying, Matt Tracy unhooked his tether and began a blind, fumbling drift through the wounded space station, outward from central hub to receiving. He moved slowly, counting passages by touch, avoiding known hazards, and arriving several long minutes after the rescue ship had bumped up to what remained of the Canadian Module. Another hard spasm rocked the station, as the (apparently) inexperienced pilots botched their first parking attempt.

Not good. His space station's orbit was already degrading, and an additional push would only speed its final plunge.

Hauling himself along with one hand, staying close enough to the creaking, flexing bulkhead to see and count the panel lights, Matt reached docking hatch 'C'. Controls to the right, if he remembered properly… there. Like he was reading it off a wrist-board checklist, the procedure came to mind.

Power to mechanism… extend airlock… fasten clamps… equalize pressure… (More thumping and scraping, then, as the two vessels locked together) …open C-1, and…

"Welcome aboard," Matt greeted the several shadowy figures who piled inside. "Sorry about the mess..."

Then, more-or-less rescued, he blacked out.

Regular universe, Thunderbird 3-

After an instant of stunned silence, Scott managed,

"Say again, Base? They did… what?"

"Launched Thunderbird 7," Jeff Tracy snapped back, grim as a carved apostle. "According to Brains, they seem to be following some kind of extraterrestrial signal, to God-knows-what."

He was about to say more, but a voice from beyond comm range distracted the older man's attention. Jeff's head snapped sideways. In profile, he looked as craggy and bleak as Denali.

"Dammit!" He muttered hoarsely. "You're sure…?"

The Tracy patriarch turned to face his older sons.

"The situation's changed, again. They've vanished; ship, signal and all. I'm uploading their last known position, Scott. I…"

He didn't have to say the rest. Scott was already punching in coordinates. Virgil, space sickness and romantic troubles forgotten, engaged auxiliary control, allowing his brother time to plan.

Not so long ago, Virgil had set off on an unauthorized mission to Spain, with Gordon riding shotgun. That had been entirely different, though. What made all kinds of sense when he'd done it seemed like a damn-fool joyride now that Gordon and Alan were at the stick. Stupid kids.

"We'll get 'em back, Dad," Virgil promised, feeling a little guilty about the precedent he'd set. Jeff Tracy's life would no doubt have been simpler if the rest of his sons had been more like Scott; crisp, obedient and efficient.

Over the comm screen, their father nodded.

"FAB, Son. Do your best, don't take any unnecessary risks, and keep in mind that 7 is a prototype. There are quite a number of untested 'Brains-storms' on that Bird with the potential to backfire. Proceed with extreme caution."

Thunderbird 7, docked with the Orbital Weather Station-

'Mess' didn't begin to cover it. Seen from close-to, the space station was a listing ruin trapped in a quickly degrading orbit. Fire and explosion seemed to have nearly gutted her, leaving just the central hub and one or two modules still habitable. Of crew, they detected but one.

When the airlocks clattered open, the four rescuers rushed out into micro-gravity and lung-searing smog. Matt floated nearby, his appearance giving them as much pause as the derelict space station had. Battered and blond, seemingly in his late twenties, he looked lot like John… if the second Tracy had been run through the spin cycle with several dozen sharp knives and some engine parts, that is.

He lost consciousness almost immediately after welcoming them aboard. No help or explanations, there. All right, then; one step at a time…

Gordon shot TinTin a quick look.

"Take him aboard 7, if y' would, Angel, an' see t' patchin' him up. Fermat can remain, as well, in the event a bit of backup's wanted. Alan?"

His brother, who'd launched himself at the comatose astronaut, looked over.

"Yeah?"

"You an' I'll head t' th' nerve center, see what's t' be done there by way of repairs."

Alan nodded reluctantly; pushing Matt's limp, drifting form to the waiting girl.

"Okay. I'll just…"

"Now, Alan."

Truthfully, Gordon wanted to rescue their man and have done with the whole dodgy business. He'd caught a glimpse of Earth as they'd raced for the damaged space station… and something there was very, very wrong; very far from what he knew. Somehow, following Matt's signal, they'd wandered… elsewhere, and Gordon wasn't at all certain he knew how to get them back. What he did feel was a tearing need to hurry.

Perhaps Alan sensed his brother's unease. At any rate, he didn't snap back, or protest the order. Making sure that TinTin and Fermat had a safe grip on Matt, he muttered,

"Take care of him, okay? I'm, like, the guy he first talked to, and I promised we'd help him out. If he wakes up before I get back, tell him I said, 'hey', and that I'll be along to visit as soon as the station's back in shape."

TinTin smiled at him, looking… gentle, or something.

"All will be well with your friend, Alain. I will call regularly with updates of his progress," she promised softly, touching Alan's shoulder.

Gordon had been studying a bulkhead-mounted 'floor plan'.

"Alan!"

The youngest brother rolled his blue eyes.

"Yes, Sir, Mr. Olympic-Tracy, Sir! Be right there!"

Alan didn't quite share Gordon's worry, or TinTin's, either. As far as he was concerned, astronaut and space station could still be fixed, Thunderbird 7 was way cool, and going home was just a matter of firing up the engines and turning around. No big deal, right? And certainly no reason to yell.

While Alan scooted along a charred tunnel after his brother, TinTin and Fermat began hauling Matt through the airlocks to Thunderbird 7. She hadn't much time to examine the unconscious young man, but formed a few quick impressions, anyhow.

He wore a bloodied green coverall suit with 'WSA' and 'Capt. Tracy' stenciled on the chest. His shattered right arm had been clumsily bound, splinted with a piece of metal strapping and a raggedly torn shirt. Oozing second-degree burns to his left side and arm added to the picture of one who'd beaten back disaster and nearly killed himself doing it. In other words: a typical Tracy.

Together, Fermat and TinTin rushed him back to the black ship, Fermat pausing briefly to study a network of strange umbilicals which had spread to the space station from 7. They'd grown through the airlock and into a hatch-side control panel… like tendrils, or something. About as thick around as Fermat's wrist, the cables glittered faintly, seeming to pulse with data and circuitry.

The boy glanced swiftly over, scanning TinTin's face, but she was too occupied with Matt to notice much else. He hesitated, then returned to the matter at hand, thinking that he could always come back for a scan and sample, later. Matt needed help, now.

To the medical center they bore him, then, shoving other concerns aside as they struggled to heal what felt like one of their own.

Washington D.C.: a hidden, shielded office outside the Beltway-

For a conference this vital, this risky, Stennis had no choice but to leave Capitol Hill. He was seated now in a tiny cement cubicle, its unadorned walls painted a featureless, hospital-issue white. The metal file desk and secure laptop before him were 'misplaced government stock'; virtually untraceable. Adding to the safety measures, Vargas would do the actual negotiating, prompted occasionally by Senator Stennis, whose voice and image would be electronically distorted. Secrecy, after all, was everything.

The appointed time arrived. The laptop's flat screen flashed, then cleared, splitting to display two very different individuals. Both were Red Path operatives, recently activated agents from distant cells. Both, like Vicente Vargas, were skilled assassins.

Ordinarily, Stennis would have contacted them separately, but hair-fine coordination was required in this instance. Nothing could be allowed to go wrong. The left hand needed not just to know what the right hand was doing, but to watch and advise it, and if necessary, cut it off.

Stennis regarded his operatives for a moment, letting them wait just a little before signaling Vargas to speak.

The dark-haired male, 'Stirling', was the most powerful of the two, and the least human. A relentless contract hunter, he'd been cybernetically enhanced to the point that no flesh-and-blood victim stood a chance. He favored broken necks, beatings and falls, and, once given a mark, he pursued his quarry clear to their violent, terrified end.

The female was quite striking, even beneath her red head scarf and sunglasses. Her code name was 'Genovese', though she'd several other known aliases. She was something of a technician, preferring bombs, traps, sniper posts, and the like. She'd a slightly lower percentage than Stirling, having once or twice rejected a contract, but was still very useful. A woman, especially a beautiful one, could often go where a man could not.

Then, of course, there was Vargas himself; the Senator's ablest lieutenant. Vargas was an artisan, a bit too given to baroque gadgetry and scene-setting, but extremely loyal. He never panicked, or lost the trail, and no one had ever escaped him. No one.

Stennis gave the small man a quiet nod, which Vargas returned. The lieutenant then opened the day's business, in his guise as 'Mr. Black'.

"Ma'am…, Sir…," he began (losing his Peruvian accent like a molting snake its skin) "the Director has an assignment for each of you, for which dossiers arrived precisely an hour ago. At conclusion of negotiations, you are to memorize the material in the dossiers, then destroy them. The couriers who brought you this information will be waiting at their beta extraction sites. You will find and dispose of them, leaving no witnesses or evidence, then proceed to your assignments."

Vargas' cold, dark eyes went first to Stirling, whose bionic enhancements had converted to a ruthless, gloating predator. He appeared to be seated at a wooden table, in some tiny, shadowed room.

"Mr. Stirling, you are to proceed to the town of 'Wharton', in New York of the United States. You have been given dual targets, persons of interest who are to be brought to site 3 for further attention. They are legal minors. Will this be an impediment?"

The killer smiled, revealing overly-perfect teeth. His pale eyes, which saw across a much broader spectrum than anyone but his dead surgeons would ever know, locked onto those of Vicente Vargas.

"No such thing as an impediment, Mr. Black. A mark's a mark. Just point me in the right direction and pay me the usual sum. Half now, half on delivery."

Vargas nodded briskly.

"Very good, then, Mr. Stirling. You are engaged. Ten million will be deposited by close of business, Greenwich Mean Time. Good hunting."

Now, for the other, the female. Through her scanner-blocking glasses, Vargas could feel her calm gaze. He wasn't positive what she actually looked like, as their dealings were always long distance, behind disguises that masked hair, eye and skin color. Even her accent was indeterminate, sort of put-on, generalized European. Her transmitted image had no backdrop, her location having been digitally erased.

"Miss Genovese," he said to the 'invisible' woman, "if the terms are acceptable, the Director would like you to go to the city of Houston, in Texas of the United States, and establish yourself at the… er…, 'Johnson Space Flight Center'. You have five months to position yourself at the highest levels, as a trustworthy and beloved aide. Your target is a public figure. It is required that he experience a sudden, terminal accident. Something affecting and unfortunate. The situation may be as public as you like, but absolutely above suspicion. Is this acceptable?"

"It is."

Her whispered reply carried the merest hint of amusement. Evidently, the target outlined in that slim dossier was altogether satisfactory.

"I will require the usual set-up and bribery funds, Mr. Black, as well as local contacts, and a line of 'company credit'."

Vargas looked over at the senator, who nodded.

"Very well, Miss Genovese. You, too, are engaged, and it shall be done as you request."

For his own part, Vicente Vargas' mark was rather higher… the suspected head of the tangled serpent's nest that was International Rescue. He quite looked forward to the challenge.