Many thanks!

14

Thunderbird 3, equatorial orbit-

Confused and clutching at shadows, Scott and Virgil had called back to base.

"…not a thing, Dad," the dark-haired elder brother was saying, frowning at his comm screen. "No debris, no signal, no energy pulse. Not even Shadowbot could hide them that well."

"Not against scanners like 3's got," Virgil added worriedly. Then, "What's Brains got to say? 7 is his baby, just like Braman. Can't he come up with some kinda alternate game plan?"

Their father's image nodded tightly. Like Virgil, he had brown eyes and a big, rangy build. Like Scott, he possessed great confidence; the power and habit of command.

"We're working on it, boys. Brains seems to think that the kids may have stumbled onto some sort of… transfer point, for want of a better word; a gateway between worlds. He suggested that you try…"

"Waitaminit…" Virgil interrupted, eyeing a sudden spike on the gravitational field sensor. "Looks like we got something, Dad."

"Or, something's got us," Scott mumbled, preparing to trigger another quick burn. All at once, it seemed a very good idea to get out of the way.

Otherverse, equatorial orbit; emptiness beyond, sullen-ocher planet below-

At speeds that would have put it on Mars in less than half an hour, the probe shot from Gibraltar to Thunderbird 7, warping space and time in its wake.

It was not entirely unexpected. Thunderbird 7 was a technological hybrid. Her onboard system was extremely fast, nearly sentient and fully capable of defending itself.

As the probe cleaved space toward her, Thunderbird 7 altered form, taking the shape of a black sphere that ran with shimmering field lines. Generated by tall, flawless crystals in quantum-critical phase shift, a dark energy bubble snapped around her and the space station, both. Had the swift-moving probe struck, it would have bounced off. Instead, Thunderbird 7 cast a web of sticky, crackling energy, its neon-blue strands woven of particles that changed from electron/positron to photon to graviton, then back again; meshing forces like a spell.

Energy strands closed around the probe. It fought like a netted bird, but couldn't break free of the tightening web, or transmit calls for assistance. Shifting strategies, the probe converted some of its mass to raw energy, becoming slightly smaller and creating what should have been a massive explosion.

Thunderbird 7 simply absorbed the energy, began reeling the probe inward like a wildly struggling fish. She was about to learn something of her origins.

XXXXXXX

The treatment center-

Once the alarm cut off, all view screens and data panels had gone suddenly dark. With a sharp crack and a low, moaning hum, the very bulkheads around them began to seethe and flow, circuits and data streams shooting across the medical center like spears of bluish light.

Gordon reached out and jerked TinTin and Fermat closer to Matt's sickbed. Alan was already there. As the cabin shrank around them like a slowly tightening fist, Gordon launched into a tirade that started with,

"Bloody hell!"

…and wrapped up three minutes later, when the now closet-sized room stabilized at last,

"…effin' ruddy nightmare!"

He'd hardly paused to draw breath, inventing phrases so colorfully baroque that Alan would have applauded, if he'd had the room. As it happened, though, the younger boy was sort of smashed into his brother's left side, with a face full of elbow. TinTin was curled into a kittenish ball on Matt Tracy's lap. He was now sitting up on his bed, which had been halfway consumed by the same pulsing, selective bulkheads that shoved the passengers into a small, struggling knot.

Fermat had been forced into a storage cabinet below the treatment bed, held fast by what looked and felt like sparking bubble wrap. For a long instant, the only sounds to be heard were the pop and crackle of energy shifts, and Gordon's labored breathing. Then the chamber expanded again, releasing its bruised inmates.

"Um…" Captain Tracy ventured, gently disentangling himself from TinTin, "Not that I really mind, Sweetie, but I'm a happily married man, so…"

The girl jumped like she'd been scalded, nearly falling in her haste to get off the mattress. Gordon caught and steadied her. She buried her scarlet face in his shoulder, momentarily, then reached down to help Fermat out of his cabinet (which obligingly widened).

Alan simply stood there, mouth agape, sky-blue eyes flicking from bulkhead to deck to newly emerged hatch.

"Man…" he whispered, finally, "that was awesome!"

Gordon folded his arms on his chest. Hazel eyes locked straight ahead, the aquanaut muttered,

"God, and any saints as happen t' be listenin', get us out of this muddle in one piece, and I swear I'll not kill him."

Alan bristled, a sharp retort springing to his lips, but Captain Tracy cut him off. Rather stiffly, the slender astronaut had risen from his sickbed. Pushing some of the silver-blond hair from his face, he inquired bluntly,

"Guys... can I ask a stupid question?"

Then, when he'd gained the attention of his four rescuers,

"Who's in charge, here? 'Cause the impression I'm getting is: no one. Are any of you actually authorized to fly this vessel? Or have any idea what it's capable of? Anybody?"

Gordon shifted his weight slightly, unfolded his arms, but said nothing. Answered by their very silence, Matt heaved a long, gusty sigh. He said, reaching for a clean coverall to put on over his tee shirt and boxers,

"So, what'd you do? Steal the thing?"

Everyone looked uncomfortable, Fermat mumbling something about checking the source of the alarm as he scuttled from the treatment center. TinTin returned to her med-scans, while Gordon strove manfully to answer the charge.

"Well… not stolen, as such. More…"

"…Borrowed," Alan supplied helpfully. "I mean, it belongs to the family. It's International Rescue equipment, so… no harm, no foul. Right?"

"Wrong."

Matt looked up from donning his boots.

"Just because I work for the Space Agency, doesn't mean I get to go around hot wiring rockets and shuttles. Cowboy stunts like that one can get you killed."

He straightened again, after tightening up the laces.

"Don't get me wrong, guys. You've saved my butt, and I'm grateful. Put me back in touch with Mission Control, and I'll be happier still. But, in the future, I recommend that you think things through and get permission to launch, before taking on rescue missions. My guess is, you've scared the crap out of your folks, who're probably scrambling like crazy to find you."

Ouch.

Gordon and Alan were saved from having to reply by the sudden reappearance of Fermat.

"Hey, G- guys…" he began, plucking nervously at the front of his blue uniform, "C- come… look at th- this! I think we've c- captured something!"