Moreedits are on their way.
64: Debrief
Tracy Island-
Thunderbird 1 landed first, plunging to Earth through the cooling wind and brilliant colors of late afternoon. The island below grew from dim flyspeck to volcanic stronghold, alive withpounding surf and creeping foliage.
Announced by screaming sirens and startled birds, the lower pool drained and then rumbled away beneath its reinforced deck, revealing Thunderbird 1's flood-lit lair. Almost home…
Scott keyed up the landing computer before gimbaling his aircraft, converting Thunderbird 1 from horizontal flight mode to vertical. As the island view was replaced by untroubled sky, a series of glowing rings appeared on-screen, leading down to the targeted 'X' that marked his landing site. Thunderbird 1 showed above it as a silvery dart.
So: keep the rings over the 'X', then slide the dart through the rings. Simple, and at a time like this, vital; for Scott Tracy had some time ago taken a left turn past 'fatigue' and off into 'stumbling exhaustion'. (Of course, the kids back in the storage compartment were even worse off... Long, nearly disastrous day.)
Following the promptings of his guidance computer, still fretting over John's last messages, Scott cut engine power and switched to quarter impellers. Time to put his Bird to bed. Down they went, descending through kissing-soft air and into a high-tech silo, abandoning daylight for concrete and steel and scurrying 'bots.
Thunderbird 1's engines died away as she settled into her hangar, touching down with the slightest of thumps. The sound quality changed, becoming more reverberant, steamy and clashing. Overhead, the pool rumbled back into place like the Moon eclipsing Earth's sun.
Scott heaved a tired sigh and rubbed at his temples. Not a perfect landing, maybe, but far better than the last two. Unstrapping, he shambled to his feet, yawning hugely.
...Heard Gordon and TinTin organizing the others for evacuation to Brains' medical lab. With Alan's subdural hematoma and Fermat's hypothermia (not to mention a seriously poisoned Virgil) Hackenbacker was going to be a very busy man.
Scott stifled another yawn, removed his cap and blue uniform sash and crumpled them into a trouser pocket. Then he went aft to help Gordon, wending his way past a displaced pile of loosely-secured gear.
The red haired swimmer was his youngest brother but one, and occasionally quite rowdy. Not now, though. Still in medic-mode, Gordon was being serious; especially with Alan, who apparently wanted to walk to the clinic.
"No," Gordon snapped, blocking his injured brother's path to the open loading hatch. "You're goin' to set your arse on that grav cart, or have me save everyone a lot of bother by killin' you m'self!"
Young Fermat was already aboard his own stretcher, wrapped in blankets and breathing pre-warmed air from a medicated tank. He wasnt't the problem.
"Alan, sit." The oldest Tracy brother commanded. "We don't have time for your crap, right now."
A few faint snuffles, and then…
"Fine. Whatever."
Grudgingly, still clutching a bloodied pad to the side of his head, Alan complied. The grav cart bobbed a little in mid air, adjusting to his weight, then settled itself.
Gordon helped his brother to stretch out, arranging a pillow for the younger boy's stitched and shaven head. Next came a woolen blanket, with a great deal of inconsequential 'chin up, Mate,' sort of talk.
TinTin, meanwhile, saw to Fermat. (More or less; actually, the girl seemed pretty distracted. Hormones?)
The five of them next left Thunderbird 1's storage compartment, stepping out through the hatch and onto a self-assembling steel gantry, with the grav carts floating along ahead.
Gordon didn't look all that well, himself… altitude sickness, probably. Scott was just about to suggest a visit to Hackenbacker, when the hangar's whooping arrival klaxon sounded. Thunderbird 2 was on final approach.
"Quick," Scott urged Gordon and TinTin, hurrying them through the busy hangar complex. "Get these two down to the medical lab. I'll fill dad in; you guys clean up and get some rest. We'll be launching again in less thana day, and you need to be ready."
Gordon's broad shoulders slumped, briefly, but he pulled himself together.
"Right, then," he responded, managing to sound cheerful. "I'll just have a bit of a wash and somethin' to eat, then report upstairs."
Scott smiled and gave his brother a deeplyapproving back slap.
"I recommend some sack-time, too, if you can manage it, Gordon… and maybe a visit to Brains; get yourself checked up."
He stepped around a stalled cleaning mech, turning sideways to help Gordon and TinTin maneuver their grav-carted patients.
"I meant what I said, back on the mountain. You did good up there. You too, TinTin… looks like we'll make an operative out of you, yet."
The girl's dark eyes dropped to the pierced-metal deck at her feet, but a small, pleased smile played about her mouth, just the same.
"Merci, Scott. I was not alone in this action, however; Fermat was indispensable and Alain…"
"Got his head bashed in by Robby the Robot." Alan sulked, not bothering to open his eyes. He was quite evidently in need of reassurance, so TinTin said,
"Alain strove very much to defend us, and to save the trapped bus driver. He was attacked unaware, or the cyborg would surely not have so easily prevailed."
Curled up on his side, covered with shame and ascratchy blanket, Alan opened one bleary eye.
"Thanks, T," he said to her, adding, "you really did kick butt out there… even if nobody knows how."
No one but Gordon and Fermat, anyway. More might have been said; questions asked, possibly, but a calm, artificial voice interrupted their conversation, announcing,
'Thunderbird 2 in main hangar. All clear.'
They'd reached the doors to the lab complex by this time, and there Scott left them.
"Guys, you're on your own. I'm going to help Brains get Virge out of 2, then debrief with dad. Take care."
Strictly speaking, he should probably have gone directly to Jeff Tracy, but Scott wanted to see for himself that Virgil was alive and on the mend. Cyanide gas was pretty high on his list of 'avoid like hell' substances, and for Virgil to survive a close brush with the stuff seemed nothing short of miraculous.
So, yawning with every third or fourth step, Scott hurried through an access hatch, along a dim maintenance tunnel, and into 2's echoing, cliff-side hangar. When empty, the place seemed every bit as large as Carlsbad Caverns. Now, though, it was dominated by the ponderous form of Thunderbird 2.
She crouched amid golden spot lights, as brooding-exhausted as something returned from a long hunt; crawling with service bots and emitting short, steamy grumbles. If she'd had a head, she'd have tucked it under one massive wing.
Shaking away the fancies andunwonted mental cobwebs, Scott climbed stairs and crossed a second gantry, picking up his pace. He was about halfway there when 2's crew hatch swung open. Brains backed through the oval hatchway with many over-the-shoulder glances, hauling a laden grav cart. Virgil.
Like his cargolifter, the big pilot needed maintenance. Scott loped the last few yards, wasting energy that he really didn't have; his rapid, heavy footfalls nearly lost amid all the mechanical hubbub and clamor.
"Hey," he panted, giving Brains a friendly nod.
Virgil lay still upon the floating stretcher, but his brown eyes were open. Under the breathing mask, he managed a pale, flickering smile.
" 'S goin' on, Scott…?" Virgil asked, breaking almost at once into aspate of fierce, ragged coughing.
"Uh-uh. Shut the hell up, mister."
Scott sounded severe, but he was smiling.
"For the next couple of days, I'm getting the first, last and only words. Got it?"
His brother nodded. Smudged, bruised, poisoned and weak, but alive; thanks to the Chilean Fire Department, and Brains.
"If y- you're, ah… you're quite through, Scott?" Hackenbacker hinted, fiddling with his spectacles. Rather anxious to get to his son, the engineer had no patience for delays. Understandable.
"Sure, Brains. Sorry. Just… wanted to check, is all."
Hackenbacker shifted his stance, temporarily releasing the grav cart.
"I d- don't candy-coat s- situations, Scott. Had your, ah… your brother's c- condition changed, I w- would have, ah… have informed you."
Great. First dad and now Brains. Batting zero today, popularity-wise.
Oh, well. Time enough to improve his public image, later. Scott let them go, then squared his shoulders, cut back across the busy hangar, and caught a lift to his father's office.
There was a silver tray of finger sandwiches on the sideboard, together with dark, rich coffee and sugar-crusted pastries. Torn between formality and food, Scott shook his father's hand, replied,
"Thank you, Sir,"
…when Jeff Tracy welcomed him home, and then began to eat.
The first four sandwiches he hardly chewed, much less tasted. His father watched for a moment, then shook his grey head and went off to fetch the claret decanter and a couple of crystal tumblers.
The fifth turned out to be Bavarian ham on crust-less rye, with just a touch of hot mustard. The sixth was cream cheese and raspberry jam. Dense, smoky coffee washed it all down, clearing the way for more.
"Have a seat, son," his father instructed, indicating a fire-side armchair. Then,
"There are plates, you know."
Sure. And he could have eaten them, too; for the roughage. On the other hand, using Kyrano's fine china, he could carry more food.
Truthfully, the entire female cast of 'Bay Watch: Live' could have been doing a saucy kick line across his father's office, and Scott would still have found true love in bread, cold cuts and scalding coffee. …By contrast with John, who would have stopped eating long enough to appreciate the show. Speaking of which…
"I've b…" (Pause, to swallow before he choked) "…been in touch with John, Sir. Connection wasn't one hundred percent secure, because it's routed through InterplaNet, so he couldn't be very open, but the impression I get is that this Red Path problem is about to turn even bigger and uglier. Not just random attacks on us and WorldGov.He…"
Jeff's mouth thinned and he held up a silencing hand.
"Scott, I'll bemore than happyto listen to your impressions in a moment... but, for the record,your brother needs to start telling me these things himself. I can't very well make informed decisions if I keep learning things second or third hand, dammit!"
The older man seemed more deeply disturbed than Scott would have expected. Maybe there was something else bothering him?
"You, uh… found out about the baby, I take it?"
Jeff gave him a single, icy nod.
"Yes, I did; from Gene Porter, of all people, as part of a damn'mission update'. It appears that I have a son who won't follow the chain of command, and an out-of-wedlock grandchild, both in danger from an organization no one in high office seems able to come to grips with!"
Jeff sighed, raked a hand through his hair, and then poured out two tumblers of well-aged claret.
"Now. Let's hear the rest of this news your brother feels I can't handle."
Phew. This wasn't going to be simple. Scott took a small, warming sip of wine, but set his drink aside immediately thereafter. He needed a clear head.
"Okay, dad. It's like this: I believe he's uncovered a massive Red Path conspiracy, and has some kind of plan to deal with…"
"Some kind?" Jeff Tracy cocked a bushy grey eyebrow. In that expression… and a certain mulish stubbornness… he and John were much alike.
"Well… he couldn't go into detail over the comm, but I think he's setting something up in the way of a computer strike, and that he…" (Deep breath) "…intends to get himself captured."
Now, the former astronaut set his empty tumbler down. No… on second thought, he poured himself another.
"Hoping they'll be foolish enough to take him straight to the head man?" he snapped, while words like 'double-dealing', 'under-handed' and 'dumb-ass' blasted through his head.
Jeff Tracy was tired, and he was worried. Long ago, he'd lost a wife and given away a baby son. Now he seemed about to lose John, and a grandchild he might never have a chance to see, or hold.
"Your brother…"
"Can be a loose cannon, I know," Scott cut in, needing once again to defend an absent trouble-maker. "But that quirky thinking of his has saved us more than once, in the past. I'll try to talk to him, but that's… it's as hard as talking to you, dad. And he listens about as well!"
Touché. Jeff nodded stiffly, and finished his second drink. Something about his eldest son had changed, and Jeff wasn't at all sure how to deal with it.
"Right," the proud CEO said at last. "And… what exactly does he need in the way of support, for this 'master plan' of his?"
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Later, in the downstairs medical lab-
Alan's physical condition had turned a corner, but emotionally he remained an adolescent mess; detailing for himself all of the many ways that life sucked.
A: He hadn't managed to rescue a really cool brother.
2: He'd been, like, useless in Siberia. TinTin had done better work, for gosh' sakes!
Next: His mom had told him that she and dad were for sure getting married again. Yeah, that was gonna last!
And, topping the list: the boy's head was killing him.
Life was stupid, marriage was retarded, and he rescued people about as good as he crocheted fuzzy wool sweaters. He'd have gone on and on in this miserable, self-pitying vein, but all at once Alan's wrist comm beeped. Now what?
Huh! The message bin was, like, totally full. Weirder still, every one of the voice mails was from John. Not repeats, either, 'cause the lengths were all different. What the heck did 'Buzz Lightyear' want? To point and laugh? Yeah. Sure. He was gonna stick his neck riiiiight out there and open up the 'emails of doom'.
Yet… Alan was by himself in a hospital bed. Gordon was off emptying the kitchen of everything not red-hot, nailed down or moldy (probably had Kyrano tied up in a corner, or something…). TinTin had wandered away with Grandma, and Fermat was talking on the phone with his mom (which brought up another sore point: namely, where the heck was his own mother? It was, like, her duty to be down here, making with the goodies and comfort. Chicks!)
Fine, then. He'd check out what was cracking Iceman's berg. Nothing better to do…
Alan raised the head of his bed with an ill-tempered button jab. Then he pressed the receive stud on his wrist comm and settled back against the pillows that TinTin had fluffed for him.
"Hey." John's voice, sounding about as excited as a 3-days corpse. "I got your alert, Alan. Scott tells me you're okay, but I wanted to check in, see how you're handling things. Call me back when you get a chance. Out."
John…? Wanted to talk…? To him? Hah-hah. Very funny. Had to be some kind of joke… except that his second-oldest brother had been, like, clinically proven to have NO sense of humor. Zip. Nada. Dry well. Might as well go fishing for sharks in a jar of pickles. Still…
"Okay. I'll bite." He pressed the response stud.
" 'Sup, John? I'm in therapy for a sub-doofal hemoglobin, or something. Thanks for asking. Uh… Yeah. So… how's space, an' junk?"
Alan was all set to wait for a reply message. Then he remembered that the voice-mail bin was full, so he hit the next message. Strangely, it was a response; like John already knew what he was going to say. Spooky, for real.
"It's busy. More shit being thrown than the fan has blades for."
Hey! Was that, like, actually a joke?
John continued.
"But I'm glad to hear that your head survived the, um… 'hemoglobin'. I've had a few medical ups and downs myself, recently, so… whatever."
So, you know how I feel, retard. Geez…! Get a vocabulary!
Exasperated, Alan replied facetiously,
"Aww… you love me! You really, really love me! I'm maximally choked up, over here, for real… But if you actually want to, like, speed my recovery, how 'bout getting back online and updating your character? Gordon and Fermat are waiting for you at the tavern, and you know how Gordon's barbarian gets! Give him that much time and he'll get caught with the mayor's wife, or something. And then you'll all get thrown in the town lock-up, again. Dude: make like a hero and update Male Elf! Get his butt back to Birchwood!"
Alan was agitated enough to raise his voice at this last, causing a white-hot spear of headache to lance through his skull. John's reply, next message down, made him forget all about it, though.
"Yeah… As I recall, I'd just gotten my ass handed to me by a level-63 black dragon. Not sure there's much butt left to drag."
Freaky. Behind John's voice, and the expected ship noises, Alan could have sworn that he heard a kiddy-type squeal.
"Dude. Are you, like, baby-sitting? Old girlfriend call youup with medical proof, or something? Heh. Just jokes, man. Seriously, though… you gotta start picking safer fights. Nobody with half a brain tackles a high-level black dragon."
Anxious-quick, he keyed up the response.
"Screw that. He started it, and I've got enough potions to set up a damn magical IV. Besides… I got the gem, didn't I?"
By this time, Alan was laughing almost too hard to respond.
"…And 4th-degree burns, smart one! Okay… tell you what; get Male Elf patched up, head over to town, and I'll throw a couple of wood nymphs in his path to help rub in the burn cream."
Jab.
"You, um… do want him to actually reach town, don't you?" His brother inquired dryly.
Alan, eager to reply, accidentally hit the wrong button. His wrist comm started to open the next message, only to find nothing there but a garbled, collapsing mess. Same with all the rest of them, like he'd broken some kind of time spell.
"Huh? Crap! What the heck…? John?" He pushed and held the send button. "Hey, Iceman… you there?"
Alan was surprised at how devastating it felt not to receive a reply. One or two more attempts, and then he decided just to leave a message.
"Okay… I know you're busy and stuff. So, call back when you can, 'cause… I've got some questions, y' know? About becoming an astronaut. Think NASA would be interested in another Tracy, if I bring my grades up? Anyways… talk to you whenever, man. Bye."
Fourteen hours later, Alan… with Scott, Gordon and Jeff… was aboard Thunderbird 3 and headed for the Moon.
(To be continued.)