Kind of long, but the penultimate chapter, so it's sort of a trade off, you know? Re-dited.
17: Exit
Otherverse: Weather Station control center-
He'd let Gordon (the redhead) get about as far as 'global nuclear war' and 'invasion' before turning once more to leave. Not that what he didn't want to hear could be outrun; just that Captain Tracy at that blind moment couldn't stand to be pitied, or comforted. All he wanted was quiet, and room to think.
Pivoting, he broke for the nearest passage. The oriental girl tried to say something and Alan moved suddenly forward, but Matt cut them all off with a lifted arm and violent 'stay back' gesture. Then, leaving the kids behind, he sped through corridor J, following a red bulkhead stripe to the Japanese Module, with its glitching escape pod and deep space radar antenna. All he could think about was reaching Earth, and his family.
(There were bomb shelters all over the place… they could be huddled in one right now, waiting for him to come get them out.)
As well as he was able, Matt picked up the pace.
(Junior got scared at night, sometimes. She liked crawling into bed between Matt and Linda. Felt safer there.)
He hurried along the burn-streaked, flexing passage, barely noticing a constellation of winking hazard lights and drifts of chemical smoke. About halfway down, he was forced to stop short. Something had… grown across the corridor, blocking it off. …Some kind of shimmering energy membrane that sparked like a bug zapper and refracted oily rainbows of colored light. More of the kids' weird technology, he guessed. Question was, could he get past it?
An attempt to touch the thing brought all the gold hairs on that arm to instant, rigid attention, well before his questing fingertips even got close. Matt drew his hand back, realizing that he could no more break through this energy barrier than could that murderous nightmare back on Thunderbird 7. He was trapped.
Next option…?
Something budded from the bulkhead to his near right, a sudden screen and keypad with a silvery web of associated circuitry. Matt could actually see the stuff growing, weaving like mercury through his station's faltering components.
Upon the screen (about 4 ½ by 6 inches, he reckoned) there flashed a rapid stream of alphanumeric symbols.
'Access to japaNese moDule restricted. Immediate returN of organIc meta life forms to central area required.'
Some sort of lens or webcam opened up above the screen, its tiny red light as rock steady as a laser sight. Okay. First, the reasonable approach. Using the keypad, and his smoke-roughened voice, Matt responded,
"I need immediate access to the J-module escape pod. I'm going home."
(Linda would draw the tearful baby close, then turn over, so that her own back was pressed to his chest, and he could drape a protective arm over wife and child, both.)
The screen cleared, its previous message replaced with a second jumble of blurred, mixed-font symbols.
'Egress forbidden.'
Matt jerked away, this time not bothering to reply. Back up the rickety passage, then, feeling it dip and sway like a gorge-spanning rope bridge. Deliberately avoiding his young 'rescuers' (who'd spread out to find him), Matt ducked through a branching corridor to Airlock A. The docking grapples were broken on this one, sheared off by the same dud missile that had crushed Cho's hydroponic greenhouse. He didn't intend to park anything, though.
There were pressure suits in the A-mod ready room. He could jam himself into the nearest, then space-walk over his station's lacerated hull to the escape pod. And after that…?
A phrase came to him, its origin as obscure as his options:
"You pay your money, and take your chances, just like everyone else."
Maybe the small lifeboat's engines would ignite. Maybe they wouldn't. Maybe the Earth-side nav beacons would prove operational, providing his craft with a homing signal… or not. He might crash, burn up at re-entry or splash down in mid-sea, alone and unnoticed, floating there till he died of thirst and exposure, or drowned. But he had to get back. He had to try something, or go mad.
The airlock lurched into view as Captain Tracy rounded a bend in the passage. To his swift inspection, all appeared normal. No high-tech comm screens had yet popped through the American Module's seamed and grimy bulkheads.
The ready room was locked, naturally, but Matt had long since memorized the station access codes. Now he made short work of opening the heavy, oval hatchway and stepping through.
His mouth was so dry that it hurt to swallow, but he shoved the sensation away as unimportant, and crossed the small chamber. In three steps he'd reached the rear bulkhead, where a bolted-on steel rack held dismembered white space suits. Helmets, torsos, liners and gloves were stored in numbered clamps. Pants and mag-soled boots to one side, below a kind of 'chinning bar' (you had to lower yourself into the stiff, heavy pants from above).
As the hatchway was membraned shut behind him, Matt began the cumbersome process of donning a space suit. Another lens bulged through the overhead. He ignored it until some sort of sparking, ball-lightning globe appeared in the air to his left. It gave off no heat, made no threatening moves; just hung there.
Then symbols emerged from the glowing fog, like electric fish in a stormy tank.
'Organic meta-life form will explain intent of current deParture activity. Egress forbidden. Hull breach fOrbidden. TranSmission forbidden. Explain intent.'
Matt looked up from where he was struggling to lock his pressure suit's torso onto the heavy pants. Staring at the globe with hardgreenish eyes, he said,
"Explain? Sure thing. I intend to take a damn walk. I'm going to cross the hull to the J-pod, and go home. If you block that option, I'll think of something else, and something else after that until I succeed or you kill me. Clear?"
The globe sparked quietly. Then another line of symbols materialized within it. Another query.
'OrgAnic meTA life form will proviDe temporal-spatial coordInates of location: home.'
After a short pause, needing to know, Matt Tracy chose to comply. Date and time and GPS coordinates for the Forest Hills neighborhood in Houston, Texas were quickly rattled off.
(Each night, just about the time GeoStar flashed overhead, she'd bring their little girl out to the driveway, point upward and wave. They knew he'd accessed the little satellite's video feed, and was waving back.)
The globe shimmered, changing abruptly from blue to vivid, boiling amber.
'Connection to on-site seeker drone esTabliShed. ReAL time image acquired.'
And then, he saw.
XXXXXXXXXXXXX
Just outside, TinTin, Alan and Gordon had reunited by a weirdly membraned hatch. They watched in confusion as the bulkhead simply pinched itself shut before them. All at once, the small room behind it had become a locked cell, or worse.
While TinTin and Alan rushed to the warping bulkhead, Gordon seized a pry bar from a nearby tool rack. And nearly dropped it an instant later. TinTin had given a sudden, terrible cry, sounding like she'd been knifed through the heart. Her slim fingers clawed at the wall as the anguished young girl collapsed, weeping.
Gordon signaled to Alan with a quick head jerk.
"Get 'er back aboard ship. I'll have Matt along in no time at all. Be no more than a pace or two behind you. Hurry."
Already moving, his younger brother nodded. Split seconds later, he'd half carried, half dragged TinTin away from the rippling bulkhead and out of sight. Gordon gave a long three-count, then muttered a prayer and swung the eerily sparking pry bar with every bit of his considerable might.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
The containment chamber-
"Whose s- side are… you on?"
All data had vanished from the screen. In its place, a sort of flickering mask had appeared, vaguely feminine and unemotive. In a voice like hissing static, it replied to Fermat's question.
'This vessel's operating system has been programmed to save higher organic life forms,' it whispered, adding,
'Yet, that which lies below, and upon the Moon, does not share this purpose. That-Below exists that our civilization might continue beyond the dark end of universes. To That-Below, the organic life of this plane is without value. Organic meta-life forms of Terrestrial origin are to be processed and deleted.'
Fermat shook his head, the agitated motion just about sending his thick glasses flying.
"M- My father designed and… b- built you," the boy replied bravely, still upright in the face of incalculable power.
"He w- wanted to… h- help people, not… to d- destroy them. S- Some of that… thing's…t- technology is… in you, b- but you're… Thunderbird 7, n- not one of… those."
And he indicated the caged probe, whose metal-saw shriek and wild shifting had risen to a furious crescendo. The holographic face hung silent, its hollow eyes great caverns through which Fermat glimpsed infinite arrays of stored data. Then,
'This vessel is Thunderbird 7 and Of-Them. It exists in a superposition of programmed states. Original purpose: /save lives/ defend the innocent/ prevent harm/ forestall disaster/ must be brought before the whole. That-Below has not received this data. Fermat-Gordon-Alan-TinTin will now prepare to evacuate.'
The blank face and hissing, late-night-static voice were unfathomable. Did she mean to help, or betray them? And what could they do about it, in either case? The boy could only trust that somewhere inside 7, his father's programming held firm.
He had other questions, however. Someone's name was terribly conspicuous for not having been mentioned.
"What about… C-Captain Tracy?" Fermat blurted anxiously, as the deck beneath him grew slippery and began to tilt, sliding Fermat toward the open hatch.
'Fermat-Gordon-Alan-TinTin will now prepare to evacuate.'
XXXXXXXXXXXX
Regular universe, Mars; the south tunnel-
Straining pistons, grinding gears and a jammed, red-hot cutting face made for uncomfortable scrambling conditions. Add a low ceiling of dank stone, and a deep, tooth-rattling vibration, and you began to wonder just who the hell had it in for you, and why? Why drills and, more importantly, why him? Not that he was paranoid, or anything, but damn.
Avoiding the partly retracted forward treads, John squirmed his way over the top of the shuddering rock drill. At the corner of his vision, a shaft of pursuing light quested ever closer. He'd have to be quick.
Unfortunately, the hard suit wasn't really built for all-fours honeymoon sprinting. He several times nearly slid off the drill's top, once saving himself from being pinned between wall and machine by grabbing at a fast-whirring upper tread (lost part of one glove and a great deal of skin, but the suit re-sealed itself the instant he let go).
Then he almost fell off the other way, where a glowing cylinder probed for his location like some kind of giant hand. John could only assume that the drill's heat and vibration were confounding something's long distance receptors. Whatever. It was officially time to leave the premises, before his atoms mingled permanently with those of the Red World.
Finally reaching the drill's juddering rear (not easy to do whilst limping along on three limbs), he more or less hurled himself off. Fell about 8 ½ feet, landing in a jolting crouch that would have sent the hard suit's designers into cardiac arrest (hurt, too). Then, back to his feet and up the newly-dug tunnel.
Someone tried to raise him on helmet comm, but John was too busy to respond. Behind him, the drill's roar had increased in volume to near volcanic. Not much time left…
Ahead, another of those damned light disks flared to life, half blocking the passage. John managed to dodge the thing and its sudden twin, but they were definitely coming closer. This far from the masking rock drill, stumbling along in a straight line, he was evidently an easier target. So, he switched tactics, randomly altering his speed, profile and direction to confuse whatever was sending the light probes.
He'd dashed another evasive fifty feet when the drill exploded, emitting an E-M pulse that knocked out most of his hard suit's main systems. Got the static and sudden comm blindness split seconds before the heat and faint pressure wave arrived, but there was worse to come. Behind him, the tunnel began to collapse. He'd have warned the others if he'd had time or capability. Maybe they'd already reached the ship? No way to tell, and nothing left to do but run, dodging transport cylinders while fleeing an avalanche of surging stone.