... sorry so late withfurther edits. I was hospitalized for a few days this week. Anyway, back on track. Thanks for the kind words, A-5!
32:
The current, somewhat amalgamated universe,Tracy Island, just before sunset-
The lawsuits were already being filed; a monstrous blizzard of them.
Just about the time that Lady Penelope whispered into her hand set,
"Parker, prepare the jet, if you please. We'll be leaving directly,"
…Jeff signed off to consider the advice of his lawyers. Unsurprisingly hislegal staffwere as lousy with dire portent as the shredded plague-flag on a drifting ghost ship.
Their first bit of advice, which he genuinely intended to follow, was that the LOIS program be considered a 'free upgrade' provided to all previous users of Braman. That way, Tracy Aerospace's IT department could avoid charges that they'd set up a global systems crash as a novel means of turning a profit. This particular caveat made sense, and Jeff had already signed the necessary documents. The rest was more problematic, because he felt responsible for what had happened, despite all the legal buck-passing.
'Admit no fault, Sir,' they'd instructed him, 'and issue no apologies or offers of reparation. Speak only through your lawyers.'
In fact, he'd been advised to shift blame entirely, hint that some hacker-concocted attack had brought Braman crashing down on them all. Maybe even that the Red Path or CTA (both infamous for violent acts of eco-terrorism) had instigated the whole mess.
The Red Path had certainly struck at International Rescue, NASA and WorldGov before… And painting one's self as a victim could be highly effective in civil claims court. Yet, Jeff hesitated.
It felt petty… cowardly… to shirk his share of the blame. Yes, computer fail-safes and redundant systems had prevented all but a handful of major disasters, but real damage had been done, and someone had to take responsibility.
Ten years earlier, he wouldn't have given the matter a second thought; he'd have beaten his highly-paid vulture squad to the slimy well of plausible lies. Now, though, he found himself groping for the right and honorable path. If such a thing even existed...
Pushing away from the desk, Jeff leaned back in his deeply-padded leather chair. Like his oldest son, Scott, he wasn't much given to introspection until things started going wrong. This was one of those times.
Jeff Tracy was not above reproach, and he knew it. Many years earlier, angered by congressional budget cuts and administrative snafus, he'd abandoned NASA to found a private-sector space agency. With a horde of investors, inside informationand the cachet of two successful moon shots behind him, it should have been easy.
Staring up at the frescoed ceiling (a serene Japanese landscape in the 'Floating World' style) Jeff recalledhis early enthusiasm; that fire to launch an empire, no matter what the cost. He'd sacrificed time at home for it, lost dozens of good friends (including, for awhile, Pete McCord and Gene Porter) and nearly destroyed his family. Lucinda had married a hero and ended up with a Fortune 500 jackass.
For a time, he'd become convinced that his disenchanted wife was seeing another man, but he'd been too proud to have it out with her, or to hire a detective. Instead, he'd promised to change, and arranged a second honeymoon in Geneva. There, Lucinda and the baby were swept away, leaving Jeff with three frightened, motherless sons, one of them all but catatonic.
Driven by grief, he'd turned his nascent space agency into a rescue organization. He'd harnessed brilliant minds, oceans of money and lofty technology to build himself a tower unto the very Heavens.
Concerned with maintaining a tight grip on potentially explosive expertise and equipment, he'd shared almost nothing with NASA; and now the world was in turmoil and his son, an unborn grandchild and four innocent astronauts were about to pay the bill for his arrogance.
Jeff straightened in his chair once more, hitching the seat forward with a faint creak of bronze casters. Obsessively, he began tidying the top of his desk, squaring papers, sorting gem clips by color, and the like. At last, everything he had control of was arranged to his liking.
It had been many years since he'd spoken with God. Now, staring directly ahead, his hands resting lightly at either side of his marble desk organizer, he said aloud,
"I'm sorry. I've done wrong, and I admit it. I'll do my best to make amends. But I… ask that you not punish them, because of me. They don't deserve that."
Then he rang for Gennine, and Kyrano.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Thunderbird 3-
He'd probably had rougher landings, but none came immediately to mind. Reentering the atmosphere, Scott Tracy switched from controlled drift to powered flight, and brought the red 'Bird in.
Shadowbot covered their tracks, both erasing 3's heat and radar signature, and plotting a safe, relatively deserted flight path to the island. Not without a few new-system glitches; coverage dropped once, high over northern Australia. The Oz air defense system alerted, and someone got a missile lock. Alarms and warning lights flared all over the cockpit,but Scott simply sped the hell up, and got them clear. Close shave, though, and extremely worrisome. It appeared that LOIS was going to need an awful lot of debugging before it approached the efficiency of Braman.
As the sky in the forward viewport changed colors, and Thunderbird 3 began cleaving air again, Scott felt himself begin to relax. They were nearly home, under tight cover and making good speed. Flight tended to drive everything else out of his head, like Grandma's tonic.
With Virgil riding shotgun, and the others strapped in below, Scott wrestled 3 through a fast, hard reentry. Booming shock waves tore the air and streaks of violet plasma wriggled along the outlines of 3's force shielding like fiery snakes. Wind noise rose from whisper, to shriek, to welcome, monstrous roar. Quick adjustments to her stick and throttle controls redirected engine thrust, and lowered the Bird's nose.
The horizon flattened out; first land, then foam-speckled ocean streaking past in a crazy-patch blur of color and texture. The ocean lay mostly dark, touched here and there with glints from the setting sun. Islands cast shadows far across the water, pointing their way. Despite everything, the worries and difficult missions ahead, Scott began humming a repetitive little song, part of a half-remembered Air Force recruitment jingle. He lived for this.
Virgil didn't look as happy, but then, he didn't usually approach the island this steeply, or this fast. Back in the windowless 'lounge', the kids were in an uproar, but as this situation was mostly their fault, Scott had a hard time locating his sympathy switch.
"Uh… Scott?" Virgil remarked, as they rocketed, comet-like, toward the island. "Here in 2.13 minutes, we're going to pass the safe threshold for a tail-first landing, and at this speed, they'll need a spatula and sandwich bags to collect the remains."
"On top of it, Virge," Scott replied. "This is strategy and motivation, not recklessness. Now, shut up and hang on. We're turning."
His younger brother gripped the armrests hard enough to bruise himself, but held his peace for a bit, brown eyes locked on the forward viewport. Meanwhile, the island was rushing up to meet them like the cleated and grass-stained shoe of a professional place-kicker.
"Scott…?"
"Hang on… hang... on… now."
Hitting impellers and full-reverse thrust, the fighter pilot killed their forward momentum with sudden, tooth-rattling force. At almost the same time he gimbaled three sets of powerful rockets and adjusted the aperature vanes, rotating Thunderbird 3 end-over-end. Six bodies strained against their seat straps, first in one direction, then another. Then began the downward slide, smooth as an oiled piston.
Virgil would have thrown up again, had he had anything left inside him to jettison. Instead, as Thunderbird 3 slipped gracefully down through the gaping roundhouse, he heard angelic choruses burst into Handel's Messiah.
"Scott…" he muttered, over the lowering rumble of settling engines.
"Yeah?"
"Next time you're about to have one of those combat flash-backs, warn me. I'll bail out in space and drift home."
His black-haired older brother gave him a quick grin, a bit of devilment sparkling in those violet-blue eyes.
"It's called 'rapid insertion', and it presents less of a target, smart-ass. Speaking of which… you'd better head down and check on the kids again. I don't hear anything. Either they did bail, or they've all died of heart failure. If they have, resuscitate and get 'em back on their feet. We've got missions to fly."
Outside, the hangar's maintenance drones were already hard at work attaching fuel lines and telemetry feeds.
"Suuuuure…."
Virgil unstrapped, gathered himself, and stood.
"See you on the other side, Scott. Pleasure having a near-death experience with you."
Scott waved him impatiently off. Civilians had a way of spotting each and every brick, yet missing the damn building. Dad had told them to hurry, hadn't he?
As Virgil wobbled his grateful-to-be-alive self aft, Scott punched in the comm code for their father's office. The call took a moment or two to get through. Then, the screen image switched from scurrying spider-bots and rigid hoses to Jeff Tracy, sitting at his big, teak desk.
The older man looked rather distracted, Scott noticed. He was pleased when Gennine appeared on screen from the left, entering the room with a tray of tea things for his father. Maybe he was alone in this, but Scott was actually happy to see the two of them getting back together. God knows, dad needed somebody. He'd been alone long enough.
Waiting until the grumbling engines uttered their last, steamy hiss, Scott gave the pair a nod and said,
"Hey Dad…'mom'… We're back. Not much trouble with the flight, besides an unscheduled loss of coverage over northern Australia. Might want to have Brains take a look at their security files before we head out again. Someone could have gotten a picture."
His father set down his cup and lifted a quieting hand.
"Son, I'm in the middle of transferring data files to NASA; everything that isn't black-project sensitive. I'll pass on your concerns, but I'm trusting you to run the missions with minimal support. Penny is headed for Houston, and I'll be joining her in a day or so."
He raked a long hand through his tousled grey hair.
"Wrap up the rescues as quick as you safely can, and be ready for anything. At the least, Endurance is coming in early and hot. At the worst… something tells me that the Red Path may figure they've got an easy mark, and try again."
"Understood, Sir," Scott replied, already making his plans. "Do what you have to. The situation's well in hand."
Jeff smiled; proud, fond, and more than a bit regretful. He'd been given the honor of pinning his son's wings on, when the boy completed Air Force flight school. He'd been there when former President Cranney had bestowed the Congressional Medal of Honor upon a pale and silent Scott. He wished he'd seen more of the little stuff, though; the crayon-drawings and school plays that other fathers talked about. Truth was, he'd missed most of Scott's childhood. Clearing his throat, Jeff responded,
"I have complete confidence in you, Son. Call me at need."
With those few words, and in those few seconds, Scott Aaron Tracy, Major, USAF (inactive) seemed to expand.
"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."
His father gave him a brisk half-salute and signed off, leaving Scott with a little time and a great deal to think about. All at once, there was someone he very much wanted to talk to.
As he unstrapped, the pilot dug out his cell phone, paged down to a certain name, and typed up a swift text message. No calls; she might be in the middle of something tricky.
'Hey hon U thr?'
Not ten seconds later,
'Armd n dngrous,' Followed by, '? up?'
Smiling, he made his way across Thunderbird 3's small cockpit to the forward hatch. His boots rang heavy on the deck, a little slowly, because he was typing another message.
'Vry bsy. Lv U. FAQ: Evrst?'
For, Cindy Taylor had twice nearly succeeded in summiting Mt. Everest, beaten back both times by weather. She was determined to try again, some day, and might prove to be a valuable source of first hand knowledge.
(She even had a picture of herself on the cubicle wall at work, standing grumpily before the Lhotse face in about seventy pounds of climbing gear and protective clothing. All you could recognize was the aggressively jutting chin.)
With a faint beep, her response flashed onto the phone's little screen.
'Love U more n B carefl! Hi avlnch risk!'
No doubt. With fragile ice, injured passengers, shock waves and engine noise, he'd need to come in like a wisp of dandelion fluff. Palming open the hatch, he stepped out onto the busy upper gantry. Repair drones skittered about in fits and starts, evidently having troubles of their own adjusting to LOIS. The kids, he saw, were one level below, with Virgil.
Getting a sudden wedding notion, he sent,
'Wht U thnk? John, best man?'
To which she replied, mischievously,
'Ur better.' Then, 'Jst kddng. Sounds fine. Upldng Evrst weathr rprts. B safe. G2G lots gng on. Will listn fr calls.'
Scott blinked.
'You're better?' Meaning… she had a standard for comparison? Stuffing his phone away, Scott stalked blindly along the ringing gantry, forcing the scurrying bots to give way or get kicked.
Women! A guy needed a PhD, GPS and a damn crystal ball to get anywhere at all.