Hi, there. =) Thank you, if you have read and reviewed. Going through one of those phases where I'm scared to open and read them. I get that way, sometimes. It'll pass, I hope... Edited.

26

Fighting his way out of darkness and silence-

He had to learn more… find a chink in his prison… and those constant, droning questions were the best place to start. He was 'hearing' them, inside of his head. Auditory nerve stimulation? Or, actual telepathy? He was willing to bet on the former, because, if his captors could read his mind, they wouldn't need to interrogate. Instead, they were counting on sheer exhaustion and sense-deprivation to crush all resistance.

-Were any technologies received from the alien vessel? –

He blocked that thought. Visualized the family sailboat bobbing gently at anchor, with gulls riding high, overhead. Sea breeze fresh in his face. John, with a book and a box of cereal. Virgil humming quietly, fishing for sharks off the stern. Slap of waves on the boat's white hull, thrumming lines, gentle rocking motion, warm sun.

If 'they' were triggering sounds in his head, then his answers were expected to show up on a brain-scan as words or images. And, in that case… he could lie.

-What is the Higgs Boson Generator? How does it function? –

This time, Scott Tracy didn't ignore the question. 'Speaking' to the darkness, he formed words in his mind, nice and clear; just like he'd said them aloud.

"Who the h*ll's asking, and why?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Manhattan, New York, early evening-

Reaching that big, clunky sweeper was one thing. Getting inside, something else, altogether. It was shaped like a gourd or a massive pear, with twin, giant fans at the bottom; their rusted blades churning up plenty of dank, poisoned air. Yeah, so… you could shoot on through that way, but risked being shredded and tossed like a dead-hero salad, if your timing was off. Next?

There was also a catwalk and maintenance access hatch up at the top, in clear view of anything with altitude, guns and a grudge. Like, y'know, angry security drones. With lasers and particle beams dissecting the air all around him… scent of ozone, blinding flashes, sharp, hissing shh-cracks… John chose to rocket through door number one. Safer that way, sort of.

It's true, you know; you see things in factual slow motion, when it's your priceless ass on the line. The sweeper's intake vent was round, and outlined in bug-crusted red LEDs. John risked lighting the exopod's high beam, but not till he'd vaulted inside. There was an old, rusted screen in his way; fragile as tissue, weakened by moisture, salt and radiation.

He tucked himself into a ball, folded the exopod's wings, and burst right on through. Got scratched up pretty bad, in the process… would need an ocean of tetanus meds, after this… but made it inside.

Just overhead… five, ten feet, maybe… the first set of giant fan blades churned and squealed like corroded butcher knives in a blender. Covered with rust and dripping with toxic slime, their radioactive edges actually glowed. Nice. Great place to visit. There was a second, counter-rotating fan just above that one, behind yet another d*mn screen. Well, no time like the present.

John could hear the sweeper's engine thrumming like a slow, mighty heartbeat. Could sense unlubricated parts grinding together like arthritic joints. This was a long-untended machine, trying hard just to do its d*mn job, and that went straight to the astronaut's heart.

As he gunned the exopod's ion generator, aiming for the spot where two long, sweeping blades were about not to be, John grunted,

"Full overhaul… and refit… Seriously. Do it myself. Promise."

The mechanical posse outside had not given up, meanwhile. Although their programming would not let them follow, they could certainly shoot. Worse, John had much less room to maneuver, inside the sweeper. Made for a lively few seconds, during which the d*mndest things stood out. There was a big, flaking sign affixed to one slimy bulkhead.

CAUTION! WRONG WAY! It advised, in peeling red paint. For some reason, John found this just one hella funny.

"I know!" he responded aloud, twisting in midair to avoid a slashing barrage of green laser-bolts.

Then, a sudden alarm howled to life. John seized hold of a maintenance ladder as the sweeper's engine switched to reverse, blowing toxic sludge out and down at the hovering drones. For about thirty seconds, he was a flag in an effing tornado; pounded against the bulkhead, just hanging on. Gears ground together. Parts clattered and squealed as a sudden blizzard of rust filled the air, jamming sensors and blocking laser fire. Had to squint hard to keep the worst from blinding him… plus unholy h*ll on his lungs. Bought him some time, though, and for that, John was grateful. Couldn't just cling there; had to keep moving, while the drones backed off and recovered. Pass Scylla, say hello to Charybdis, collect two-hundred dollars.

The second screen was hardly corroded, at all, and the reason soon became clear. As he dodged raining shards and fogged lasers, John sensed the pest-catching force shield beneath it. Those things produced a deep, subliminal hum, and their job was organic contaminant disintegration. Yeah. In other news, he'd learnt seventeen ancient languages on his free time. Could think, "Oh, sh*t," in every single d*mn one of them.

XXXXXXXXXX

In the air over the Pacific Ocean, just after dawn-

Thunderbird 2 held steady at twenty-one thousand feet, with the prototype outlined in early sunlight, a hundred yards below. Length of a football field, Virgil's favourite measuring-stick.

Harness and tether secure, he'd triggered the lower hatch, which dropped open like a startled mouth. Virgil braced himself on the ramp's shining pneumatic pole, because the winds up here were fierce. Smiling, he looked at the sun for a moment, watching it dim behind the responsive glass of his faceplate. Beautiful. A view like no other, with gem-blue, pink-washed sky and sparkling sea melting into one another. Like parallel lines, they met at infinity. Virgil could have stood there gazing for hours, but he had work to do.

Craning his head in that rattling, buffeting wind, the tethered pilot looked up at his Big Girl's green hull. Something had struck her repeatedly, bringing life back to her main system, somehow. Had sounded like an effing hailstorm… but there weren't any dents or scars that Virgil could see. Just smooth, undamaged metal. Weird.

Once again, Virgil suspected the Mechanic, although he didn't say so out loud. Kane had a strange set of personal rules, but he did have them, and would neither acknowledge, nor return, a simple "thank you".

Anyhow, the ramp had dropped to full-open; it's slight thump and halted motor cluing him in before the bright chime and flashing "all clear". (Memo to body-cam viewers: you weren't supposed to ride the thing down, like that. Just… he knew what he was doing, stronger than average, in a hurry, blah, blah, blah.)

One gauntleted hand locked tight on the pneumatic strut, Virgil leaned out to look down at the Prototype. She rode the air currents; big, sleek and silver, just below him. Upper hatch was wide open, he saw, with a couple of Mini-Maxes flashing their welcome, inside. Virgil waved back.

Controlled his thoughts, because… yeah, John, Scott and now Gordon were all missing in action, along with the Pendergasts… but worry didn't solve a d*mn thing, and never had. All a man could do was his best, as Granddad would say.

"Ready or not, here I come," Virgil announced, like he was about to do a cannonball into the deep end, back home.

"Roger that, Vic. Come on down. Cain't start this party, without ya," replied Taylor, dropping the prototype's shields.

Virgil chuckled. Then, giving his line another just-to-be-certain tug (go ahead and ask how many times he'd been killed in sim by faulty equipment. Seriously. Ask.) Virgil Tracy inspected his harness, then stepped off the edge and out into screaming thin air.

XXXXXXXXX

The New York Dead Zone, not quite simultaneously-

Every frickin' alarm on the sub had gone off, at once. Every warning light, every caution ping. Complete chaos erupted, as her locational system struggled to cope with the sudden, wild change in position. Nose-down, now, Thunderbird 4 dropped like a rock in a churning waterfall. Gordon Tracy couldn't see what lay below… had only one arm free to work with… but he did have a plan.

Shifting Chip around to a (please, God) safer position, the aquanaut fired 4's steering jets at full blast. Slewed her around. Still falling, but facing upstream like a salmon confronting a fish-ladder. Punched it, and the h*ll with engine capacity and fuel consumption. Couldn't stop falling, could slow down.

Charlie gripped his dad's arm super-tight, meanwhile; wanting to help, but scared that he'd do the wrong thing. That breaking the rules and sneaking inside had made this all happen. But,

"Love you, Kiddo," his father grunted. "Best day of my life so far, was meeting you. Whatever happens, remember that."

XXXXXXXXXXX

Locked into stealth mode, headed northwest-

They could no longer track the exopod's transponder signal, of course. Stealth shielding blocked all incoming data, as well as rerouting scans. Made Thunderbird 3 sneaky, alright, and a gosh-darn hazard to navigation. See, effective invisibility cut two very dangerous ways. The sleek, crimson rocket was down to just visual flight, and out of touch with Thunderbird 5. Bad enough, when she had the skies to herself. Except, y'know, she didn't.

With Pacific North freight traffic blocked, latecomers were doing the sensible thing; they were diverting to the next nearest spaceport, which was up in Winnipeg, Manitoba. All of them. Normally quiet air lanes had turned into a crowded hell of jockeying tankers and transports… who didn't know Alan was there.

No way to get above or below that logjam, which stretched from rooftop level to near lunar orbit. Al had to punch right through, flying like Uncle Lee and ten-thousand videogames had taught him. Lucky he had a friend along, huh?

"Ore freighter, three o'clock!" Piper called tensely, as Alan handled the stick. Or, "Coming up from behind, closing fast, passenger liner. Gap half a mile straight ahead, if you punch it and rise, uh… five-hundred yards!"

Like that; only, add pounding heart, cold sweat, and true love.