Thank you for your patience, and I apologize for all the confusion. Sometimes I get excited, and forget to fully explain what's in my head. Hopefully, herein please find a few clarifications and some edits...
11: Otherverse
Thunderbird 7, the treatment center-
Warmth and darkness held him tight as the black-velvet nest for a rifle part or a musical instrument. But, every so often, the world broke through. The intrusions came softly; more questioning brushes than sharp slaps. There were assorted noises: the quick, precise sound of busy hands, humming machinery, and a girl's occasional murmured voice.
The sounds wove drunkenly back and forth across the border between sleep and waking, one moment dream-like and echoing, sharp and bright the next. He let them be, content to imagine that someone was actually there.
The illusion persisted, though, which began nagging him awake, or trying to. Opening his eyes was no easy task while pain and memory rolled around at the murky bottom of a chemical sea, but Matt finally succeeded, literally forcing himself conscious.
Crabs in a pot of boiling water would batter and crash at the lid, fighting to get out. He knew this, because he'd long ago infuriated his mother at the beach house in Maine. Sneaking into the kitchen, he'd released the very last batch of stone crabs she ever tried to cook.
(…and why he thought of this now, Matt had no idea…)
"John Matthew!" She'd snapped from the porch steps, hands at her hips, while crabs fled desperately across road and sand to churning grey water. "They're injured. You haven't saved them! They'll die, anyhow, and there goes supper, to the gulls and the traffic!"
She'd worn a pale blue summer dress with a lobster-print apron over it, her sun bleached hair was pony-tailed back …and father had still been alive.
Leaning against whitewashed planks with his arms folded, trying not to laugh, Jeff Tracy had remarked,
"I'm afraid she's right, Son. I know you meant well, but the crabs are too scalded to defend themselves, or fight off infection. They're going to die."
"But not trapped in the dark," he'd insisted stubbornly, small, burnt hands fisted in his shorts' pockets, blond head lowered. "Not in a pot."
This time, it wasn't his father who answered. Not Scott or Virgil, either. Instead, Matt Tracy's half-open eyes found focus on a young oriental girl with a very shy smile.
"Non," she replied. "Not trapped, nor boiling, Monsieur. You are still fevered, but safe in Thunderbird 7. And your station is likewise undergoing repair."
She adjusted something out of his dim and tunneled field of view. Then, there came a wordless guarantee:
'Rest and heal. Your watch is being covered, and all will be well.'
He believed her, and he slept.
Space, Thunderbird 3, the cockpit-
Sleek as a crimson needle, the space craft followed 7's gravitational 'wake' to a certain point in low orbit.
"Uh…" Virgil leaned over his instrument panel, scowling at the telemetry Braman was feeding him. "Okay… this is really strange."
"What?" Scott responded, switching scanner settings. For some reason, he couldn't seem to find…
"Uh-uh. Not 'what'; 'where', and 'where the hell'?"
Scott glanced over, a panel full of glowing instrument lights reflected in his deep blue eyes. Before he could ask, Virgil clarified.
"First, we're at Thunderbird 5's old spot, low and over the equator. Second… the trail's vanished."
"Maybe they cut power?" The pilot hazarded, his heavy dark brows drawing together.
Virgil shook his head, giving himself an unwelcome moment of vertigo. The cabin was spinning, but he squeezed his brown eyes shut, and kept talking.
"Naw... I mean vanished. Gone. No debris, no energy field… nothing. The trail cuts off right here, like somebody slammed a door."
Scott shifted in his seat straps, one hand at the comm button. Now what?
Endurance Base, Mars, the new communications center-
John had uploaded Braman, but hadn't fullydisabled the other. The official COS was still present, in all its slow, fubar'd glory, lobbing mission and medical data back and forth from Mars to Houston, like sloppy water balloons.
Thing was, Braman had two basic settings; overt, and damn near invisible. It could be installed very quietly, leaving only the shell of NASA's operating system apparently chugging right along. In that way, everybody won. NASA got jaw-dropping accuracy and calculation rates, Brains' entangled photon comm system worked properly, and International Rescue got a wide-open data window. Very helpful in the event a rescue became necessary, or a piece of Tracy Aerospace equipment malfunctioned (John had no desire to crawl through the chewing parts of another robot drill).
Still… he'd long had the intense, stubborn feeling that there was another way. That he could have designed something better. And the scribbled backs of about ten-thousand envelopes and a bunch of discarded napkins proved he'd been trying.
John glanced at his watch. 13:52:04… He had time, still, before he was due to join Roger at the south dig. His laptop was back at his sleeping compartment, aboard ship, so John simply opened up a notepad on the screen before him and began programming, slipping into a half-conscious, time-stretched mental state, and coding on the fly. Numbers, calculations and conversions, the states AND, OR, NOT and a million pale shades in between, flickered through his thoughts, forming something; a presence, a picture. Almost, a personality. It was there, the thing he'd been missing… in the alignment of cross-dimensional logic gates, or the spin state of super-cooled electrons… enough 'uncertainty' to allow genuine thought. It could be done.
Then, sudden as a striking fist, the notepad window closed, sending what he'd keyed in to computer perdition in /dev/null.
John blinked, thrown out of his semi-hypnosis. A very strangeerror message had come up. Not from the official operating system, from Braman.
-UnauThorized programming actiVity: Further actionS prohibited.-
"What the hell…?"
He leaned forward in his chair, which squeaked backward just a bit. John tended not to get angry, but to switch to rapid contingency mode. There was always… always… a plan B.
He opened a second work space in a different program, but this one shut down immediately. Again, came the error message; stark black letters on a white screen, some of them strangely larger than others, or slightly blurred, as though moving.
-UnauThorized programMing activity: Further action will be preventeD-
John stared at the screen, aware that (through webcam and high-tech bio-med sensors, through scanning and comm systems) he was being minutely observed in return.
…And what could be seen might be altered. Time for plan C. He felt through his pockets for paper and a flash-drive, only to face another interruption.
Linda walked briskly through the hatch, looking a little nauseous. He turned in the chair to face her. All at once, it became very important to John that she and 'Junior' not come within site of the computer screen. Cutting power, he rose with sudden, clumsy speed. One of the chair's wheels caught on a floor seam, and it toppled. John moved to catch the thing, and over-corrected. On Mars, he weighed a scant 71 pounds, and was still working out the proper application of strength required for normal activity. Net result: the chair fell over, hard plastic clattering loudly against raised metal flooring.
Dr. Bennett shook her head.
"You okay?"
John looked around, as though honestly unsure whom she'djust addressed.
"Yes, you, Sunshine. Unless you've got an invisible friend, there's no one else here. I'm the one who's picked up a hitchhiker, remember?"
Yanking the chair upright (too much force, again), John came forward. He moved to stand between woman and computer station, hearing a slight sound from behind him as power came on, again, and the camera's lens swiveled to track him.
He put a hand on her slim shoulder, newly aware of how small she seemed. How vulnerable.
"Yeah. Sorry. I'm good, just late for pick-axe detail with Thorpe, I guess."
He kept moving, rather unsubtly steering (his family…?) out of the chamber. Linda didn't shake off the hand.
"You've got 20 minutes," she informed him, adding, "I know how you get, so I thought I'd come give you a heads-up. This way, you get there on time, and Pete's blood pressure stays normal. Sheer genius."
He smiled at the floor, increasing the pressure of his hand, slightly, before releasing her shoulder.
"Thanks."
"Don't mention it. You seem to need a lot of looking after, and, uh… I can use the practice."
The tunnel they walked through wasn't high, or particularly broad.Two people standing side by sidemight easily touch both walls. The curving grey stone was slick with moisture and growth, despite periodic radiation purges. The steel deck was going to need another coat of paint, soon. Ferrospirilum evidently found all-weather microbe-inhibiting latex quite as tasty as iron. Half the overhead lights were out again, too, their wires eaten through by acid water. Mars; love it or leave it.
They headed east through a branching maze of underground passages, making for Endurance. The spacecraft was on the surface; physically linked, but otherwise independent. She was simply too primitive to support an operating system like Braman. And, there, Linda would be safe. At least, until he decided what to do next…
"Do me a favor," John began, as he handed her up the aft boarding ladder. Just overhead, mated to the tunnel roof, lay the ship's exterior airlock. "I mean, you can do whatever you like. I'm not… it's up to you."
Linda paused, for he'd made direct eye contact and held it, a very rare thing.
"Please: stay in the ship. You can monitor bio-med readings and surface scans from the flight deck, or something… and I'll keep my comm switched on."
She was several rungs up the ladder, now, hanging half-turned by one hand, while John stood on the deck just below, looking at her. It was nearly impossible to guess what had motivated that request, and dragging admissions from John Tracy was akin to pulling the claws off an under-fed tiger.
Linda decided to humor him, though. Leaning downward suddenly, she surprised him with a quick kiss.
"Okay. We'll stay inside. You take care, and… um… I'll see you tonight."
He looked away, again, having spotted a loose rung on the boarding ladder.
Tonight?
"Sure… if the drill doesn't blow up, we avoid cave-ins, and…"
Linda slapped at the side of his blond head.
"I'm serious!"
"Right. 'Careful' and 'tonight'. Got it."
Another kiss happened, then, this one because of him. He stretched upward a little and caught her mouth. When they broke at last, Linda gave him a quick nod and hurried up the ladder. John watched her go, wishing that he had some real answers.
Thunderbird 7, Elsewhere-
…which, more or less, was all Fermat wanted. The boy had put his head through the treatment center hatchway, giving TinTin an urgent wave.
"TinTin!" He hissed.
The girl glanced back at her sleeping charge, and then crossed the cabin. Fermat hauled her out into the passageway, where small, sparking bits of data were pouring like rain along the dark bulkheads.
Blinking up at her through his smudged glasses, the boy whispered,
"Has M- Matt recovered… enough t- to wake up and talk… yet?" His blue eyes were very large, and full of worry.
TinTin shook her head.
"No, Fermat. He has the few periods of waking, but they are brief, as yet, and I fear to push him faster. Even with nanotechnology, the healing of wounds such as hisrequires time."
And then, a bit apprehensively,
"Why?"
Fermat gestured down-passage, to the airlock/interface between Thunderbird 7 and the space station.
"I w- was hoping… for m- more detailed data. I've… b- been studying what's left of the station's m- memory… banks, and Thunderbird 7, and… it's very not g- good, TinTin."
"What happened?" She breathed, after a quick peep within assured the girl that Matt slept on. She, too, had seen the irradiated ruin that smoldered like a live coalbeneath them.
"As… n-nearly as I c- can tell, deciphering the f- files, some sort of… invasive intelligence s- seized control of… this world's g- government mainframes, w- with the help of… of a r- rogue political figure, and… triggered g- global nuclear war."
TinTin's soft mouth fell open, slightly.
"Then… the populace? The children? They are all…?"
Fermathad gonepale; he was a genius, yes, but also, just then,a heavily-burdened young boy.
"This w- world appears to have been… nearly sterilized. Communications are im- impossible, obviously, but I've… s-seen grouped fires moving around on… on th- the night side. So, maybe…"
At the sight of TinTin's expression (she'd deliberately, tightly shielded herself, keeping mostly to the treatment center and her patient), Fermat shifted topics.
"Uh… there's other news, too: I've noticed all kinds of amino acid chirality reversals, and there's a kind of macro-scale Pauli exclusion principle at work…"
Thankfully, Alan gave his babbling friend a dramatic assist by sprinting through the airlock hatch. Whipping off his face mask (it was still pretty smoky back at the weather station), the boy called out a greeting.
"Hey, Fermat!" He bounded over and slapped the younger lad's shoulder, nearly toppling the little fellow. Next, turning to TinTin, Alan put on his best, slow-burn sultry look.
"Hi there, Sexy! Feel free to fantasize… everybody else does."
Gordon's fortuitous appearance saved his younger brother, who'd experienced the sudden, overwhelming desire to punch himself repeatedly on the nose. Shooting TinTin a sharp look, the swimmer wrestled Alan into a tight headlock, only releasing the boy when he stopped trying to knock himself silly.
"Bloody told you t' stop mucking with th' oxygen mixture," Gordon muttered, giving the girl (genuinely contrite, he understood) some cover. He needn't have troubled. Deeply awed, Alan felt of his own reddened, swollen nose and muttered,
"Whoa… I sure can fight!"
Glancing heavenward, Gordon dropped him.
"Right, then," the redhead grumbled. "Movin' right along…"
"How's Matt doing?" Alan cut in, sounding like he had a bad head cold.
Fermat and TinTin exchanged cautious looks.
"He… continues to improve," the girl replied, slightly shifting her stance. An accidental brush of her hand to the bulkhead caused a swift, bright gathering of data bits, and a heatless spark (left her knowing the exact temporal-spatial coordinates of Eustace, Florida, too… but that hardly signified).
"Excusez-moi, s'ils vous plait," TinTin murmured softly; to whom, she wasn't quite certain. The ship, maybe?
She sensed Matt's wakened state wellbefore she heard his voice.
"Hey…" Little more than a whisper, but the thoughts behind it were alert and troubled. TinTin pivoted hurriedly, returning to the treatment center with Alan, Gordon and Fermat.
Her patient was sitting up, grasping at the bedrails as though afraid he'd fall out. He'd been looking around at Thunderbird 7's shifting equipment and circuitry, but focused on the four rescuers when they piled into the cabin. Alan got to him, first.
"Hey, man! How're you feeling?"
Except for eye color (bluish-green), the still-battered Matt was an absolute ringer for John. A little older, possibly, and a great deal more exhausted.
"That's a tough question," he began, after taking a drink from the water bottle TinTin had left at his bedside. "When I find out what's happened back home, and how the station's doing, I'll be able to give you a full report."
Then he relented a bit, adding,
"Thanks for asking, though… and for hauling my butt off the toasting fork. I seem to be doing better. All the parts are working…"
Like John, he cocked an eyebrow, but smiled at the same time, with genuine warmth.
"…the ones I've tested, that is."
TinTin took a sudden, red-faced interest in her medical readouts, but Alan grinned.
"Dude! We are so gonna get along! John'll be…"
The rescued astronaut shook his head. With a lifted hand, he insisted,
"Nobody calls me that. It's been 'Matt', or 'Matthew' since I told my mother that 'John' sounded generic."
He'd gone so far as to take heavy black marker to a plain white t-shirt, printing: JOHN on the front, and an itemized ingredient list on the back. She'd taken the hint.
"Seriously, though… I couldn't make contact with anyone on Earth, or the Moon, but with technology like you guys have got, you must be getting right through. What's their status, down there? They were talking war, last I heard."
TinTin gave the boys a quick, subtle head shake. Momentarily, she considered putting Matt to sleep, again, but Gordon waded in. Looking from girl to patient, he said,
"We're hard at work establishin' comm, Sir, but it's all a bit muddled just now, what with… er…"
"Different f- frequencies, time… time z- zones, and the like," Fermat added helpfully, bailing Gordon out (the aquanaut had never been a talented liar; only John was worse at embroidering fact). "B- but we're… absolutely on it. L- like my mom on… on germs."
Whatever Captain Tracy thought, he kept to himself, or mostly so. TinTin shot him a sudden, concerned look, biting her lower lip.
"You guys seem like a nice bunch of kids," he said, when the silence had grown awkward. "A little young to be flying missions, maybe, but I'm in no position to argue. I, uh… would appreciate the truth, though. Starting with where you're from, and how it is you know me."
The four friends looked at one another. Once again, Gordon shrugged and led off.
"Right. Fermat might paint a nicer image, perhaps, but it comes down t' this: an emergency transmission from your… world, I suppose… made it through t' ours. We followed th' signal through some sort of hole, right t' your station, here, and then we set to work tidyin' up."
A set of metallic filaments had extruded themselves from the right bedrail, pinning Matt's forearm long enough for the bed to deliver a shot. He jerked his outraged limb away from the rail, rubbing suspiciously at a tiny welt. There was, maybe, a such thing as too much technology.
Fermat picked up where Gordon had stopped, continuing smoothly,
"A m- more relevant… question m- might be… why w- was your… transmission able t- to reach us? How did it… c-cross a dimensional b- barrier? Have you… p- previously ex- experienced such… anomalous occurrences?"
"He means," Alan cut in, stepping up and wriggling his fingers in mid air, "is freaky, creepy weirdness, like, constant, with you?"
Gordon sighed disgustedly, muttering,
"Cleared matters right up, that did."
But, Matt seemed to understand the boy's intent.
"Well… no. Not… I mean... my mother swears that I disappeared for a few months, when I was about 19 years old… and that no one believed her that she even had a third son. Not even Virgil or Scott. And then (she says)… when I showed up, again, just like nothing ever happened, nobody remembered I'd gone missing. Not even me. But, I mean… it was around the fifth anniversary of dad's death, and females can get kind of hysterical."
Baffled, Alan, Gordon and Fermat tried to work out how a teen-aged Matt's vanishing act might relate to their universe. TinTin stayed quiet, but she was like that, sometimes; moody.
They hadn't gotten much past the first round of speculations when a sharp, bleating alarm from thunderbird 7 shattered their thought processes like stone through window glass. As Scott had wondered, at precisely the same spot, a mere dimension/ universe away…
?tahw woN