Hi, guys. Almost time to return to work. Feel like I'm pretty close to the end of this one, but I'm not sure. Depends on a couple of upcoming scenes, I guess. Anyhow, thank you for reading and reviewing. It's been eventful, and I appreciate all the comments and insight. Tikatu, Thunderbird Shadow, Susan, Creative Girl, Akimakel and Bow Echo, hugs!

48

Elsewhere, though nearer than any suspected-

The alert flashed outward: Insertion successful. Infiltration initiated. And, while some demanded immediate seizure, more took the long view. Two kanni had been set into motion. Both showed discernable progress. Cultivation and watchfulness had always worked, and always would. Water on stone. Wind over sand. Time against mountain. In the end, it was never the rock that prevailed.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Thunderbird 2, some hours later-

Virgil Tracy found himself with an awful lot to do. Deliberately. The news about Scott… that he'd been arrested and brain-scraped (though WorldGov denied it), was too much to deal with. Too painful to handle. Like… like accidentally swallowing an unchewed ice shard that wouldn't melt, and wouldn't go down. Just hung there and stabbed, from inside.

So, he kept himself busy, instead. Tried not to think very much, until someone managed to wring a few solid answers from the GDF computer files. Ordinarily, John or Brains would have been right on it, but the one was out in Kyoto, while the other had something going on back home with his wife, and… dunno… Virgil hadn't kept up with the news. Actively avoided it, in fact. Had a full docket, already.

The big, silver prototype held far more people than Thunderbird 2 could take off her hands all at once, even with the GDF and Pen's loopy brother pitching in. Best case scenario, packed to the gills, she might could hold ninety. A hundred more, if they stuffed people into the emptied pod, as well.

Only, Virgil had to get back aboard, first. Couldn't perform another in-flight switch-up, either, because GDF regulations prohibited transfer of flight personnel while carrying civilian passengers, blah, blah, blah.

Bottom line, he'd had to ride with Lee to Japan, wait for Josh to remote-fly his Bird over, and then reclaim the giant green cargo-lifter. Most of their refugee passengers were put ashore in Yokosuka, but not the king and young Clarence. Those two got a ride home, in style.

Virgil hated himself for not being able to stay in Japan and see Scott, only… only there was not a thing he could do to help out. Not really. Sickbed comfort was not in his skill set, which tended to major in music, engines and rescue gear.

Also: he'd promised folks a ride back to Great Britain, Gordon was going to need pickup, and, well… he wasn't sure he could face his brother's empty shell. Not yet. Anyhow, Uncle Lee was headed there. Plus Penny, John, Kayo and Rigby… D*mn Rigby! He belonged to the GDF, which was part of WorldGov, who'd probably done that sh*t to Scott, no matter how Shaw denied it. No… he very much did not need to see Wayne Goddam Rigby, just then. Maybe, not ever. Too hurt, too savagely angry to think straight. Just took refuge in flight, and made nice for his VIP passengers.

The king asked a great many questions, possibly to keep him occupied. Virgil let Denys and Clarence have a go at flying his big girl (very high up, with nothing around, and ready to snatch back that throttle and yoke the instant they did something wrong). Nothing like a little hair-raising tension to beat back personal nightmare, huh?

He even provided an inflight meal of soda, snacks and ham sandwiches. They shared a big open bag of salt-and-vinegar crisps, drank straight from the bottle, and made their own sandwiches, warmed on the instrument panel. Surprisingly enough, His Majesty was good at all three of those things. Not a bad pilot, either, for a guy who'd last touched flight controls as a dashing young prince.

"One might quite easily become accustomed to this," said the king, all bright eyes and smile-lines. Clearly, he'd gotten the bug, hard.

Virgil managed an answering smile, as he sat in that rumbling cockpit, babysitting a pair of celebrity guests (and bodyguards, who rode in the back). Below them, the ocean looked like textured blue paint, touched here and there with lacy gold clouds.

"It isn't all sunsets and picnics, Sir," he told the king. "sometimes, the weather's bad, you're low on fuel…" (Your brother's a broken and mindless shell, without even WorldGov new-life programming to sustain him.) "…or someone just up and attacks."

"You've weapons, of course?" cut in Clarence, being halfway serious. "I should think that a vessel of such importance and rondure... Such, erm… generous girth…"

"Calling her fat?" challenged Virgil, smiling a little.

Clarence struck a heroic pose (which took some doing, strapped to a seat, as he was).

"My good sir! Not a bit of it! She is amply proportioned, rather, as an operatic diva, performing the singular role of lead Valkyrie in 'Ring of Union'…"

"Ring of the Nibelungs," Virgil muttered under his breath, adding, "Richard Wagner. Great opera, hard on the bladder." Because, you know, it was long.

Something like a look of warning crossed the younger man's normally vapid, cheery face, at that. His blue eyes flicked toward King Denys, so swiftly that Virgil might have imagined it.

Okay, yeah; pre-conflict saga, outlawed language, outmoded concepts. Modern Valkyries rewarded peace and cooperation. They did not harvest the bold and courageous dead. But, if His Majesty caught Virgil's dangerous slip, he ignored it, and kept right on flying that Bird. Helluva guy, actually.

"She's got some adaptable lasers, the sonic blaster and a shock-hull feature, if it comes to defense," said Virgil, going back to the question. "Not weapons, really. IR's never been about fighting. Just…"

"At times, you've no choice?" supplied grey-haired King Denys, quietly.

Virgil nodded, sick to his big, broken heart.

"Yes, Sir. Sometimes, we get backed into a corner, and all we can do is come out swinging. You'd be surprised how many people take exception to just being rescued."

Clarence had been looking around at the high-tech cockpit and flashing instruments. Now, returning his gaze to Virgil, the handsome young nobleman said,

"Quite dangerous, I should think, this life you lead? And exhausting, as well?"

Once again, Virgil Tracy replied with a nod.

"Yeah, it is," he admitted bluntly.

"And yet, day after day, call after blasted distress call, you charge forth to rescue us," said Clarence, wonderingly. "Hardly deserve it, do we? Foolish and stubborn as we oft times are?"

Virgil shrugged his broad shoulders.

"It's what we do," he said, simply. "Dad had an idea… Brains brought it to life. We, my brothers and I, make it happen. One flight, one rescue, one risk at a time."

Clarence trailed a slim hand across the control panel; right then and there falling in love with engine noise, vibration, chattering instrumentation and roaring power.

"Bit addictive, I suspect," he mused, adding, "No marvel at all that Pee-Dee's so taken with you lot. Pity International Rescue isn't comprised of lovely young women. One might almost be moved to sign on. There is your sister, of course... Quite attractive, in her fashion, but rather… erm… frightening."

Virgil chuckled, running a big hand across the wilting spikes in his dark hair. (Rescue proof, twenty-four-hour gel; now there was a Brains-worthy invention.)

"She'd eat you for lunch, Lord Clarence," the pilot agreed. "And she hates polite society. Kind of like John, only worse, because no one keeps forcing her out." Then, changing the subject, "Why do you call her Pee-Dee? Penny, I mean."

Clarence blinked at him like a spectacled, mild-mannered owl.

"Ah. Yes. Mum's doing, actually. She will continually address the Gilded One as 'Penelope Darling'. One's simply shortened the moniker to Pee-Dee, for convenience's sake."

Made sense, Virgil supposed; though nicknames in his family had always come from Grandma… or Uncle Lee, who just got their names wrong, every d*mn time. By now, the big pilot was so accustomed to "Vic", that he barely noticed the difference.

The rest of the trip passed pleasantly enough, ending in a brief touchdown on the ornate, restored grounds of Kensington Palace, where he dropped off his happy, bone-weary passengers. All of them… even the guards… shook his hand. Virgil Tracy wasn't his father, but just then, he'd been more than enough.

Wasn't… didn't want to be… finished. Not with Gordon across the Atlantic, lying low and waiting for pickup. After that, well, there had to be something else he could do. Anything at all, rather than focus on what had happened to Scott.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Kyoto, Japan, at the Yokosuka Navy Town Hospital-

Lady Penelope fared little better; trapped in a lie of her own making, and forced to perform her public role with John Tracy. In her artfully crafted fund-raising campaigns, you see, John was her mysterious, heroic paramour. A handsome son of the Colonel who'd fallen so hard for her wit, charm and sophistication, that he always turned up to defend her.

For publicity reasons, they were "in love". And now, with Scott's mind an empty, ransacked ruin, Penny was unable to simply rush to his side. She was caught in the web she'd woven, almost delirious with guilt and anxiety.

John… must have learnt more than she'd suspected. His deportment was impeccable, as he drew Penny through crowds of reporters and media drones, answering questions and helping her to pose for interminable pictures. Hid her tears with strategic embraces, even. Only inside the hospital, within Scott's luxurious private suite, did her red-haired young friend drop his act.

Kayo, Lee Taylor and Captain Rigby were already present, standing about the airy blue antechamber to Scott's personal treatment room. They were many stories up, with secure, one-way windows and anti-eavesdropping tech in place. It was a pleasant setting for horrid news, with a light blue, figured carpet, impressionist artworks adorning the walls, and gentle music muting the hospital's usual noise.

Penny released John's hand once the outer door shut behind them. Still wearing his white tuxedo jacket over that slashed pink gown, the young noblewoman stepped hesitantly forward. Looked from one grim face to another, before crossing the room to embrace Kayo, who appeared to be in shock. Couldn't quite bring herself to ask the question. Didn't have to.

"He's fine, physically," Kay whispered, not meeting anyone's gaze. "A little dehydrated and hungry, they said. Still able to talk and take care of himself. Just… no memories. Nothing. I guess that he's rather scared, right now. I would be… but seeing us hasn't brought anything back. It's like he was just born, almost. Or, like he just died."

Tears slipped from her large green eyes; silent and unacknowledged. John came to his sister, then. Not normally a demonstrative young man, he nevertheless enfolded her in a long, tight embrace. She was quite stiff at first, Penny noticed.

"Who did it?" John asked, deliberately not looking at Captain Rigby.

Their uncle, Lee Taylor, set down a beer and strode over.

"Hard ta say," he answered. "Looks like Unity Commission work on the surface… only, they allus leaves a new-life personality. Usually with a name from some old-timey book or movie. Spencer ain't got none of that, an' sumthin' don't hardly feel right."

Like Kayo and Captain Rigby, Lee Taylor was still in his rumpled and work-stained uniform. His shadowed, unshaven face seemed tired and sad… but not beaten.

John gave Kay another brief squeeze, then turned to confront the silent blond Marine, who'd been standing there, awkward and unhappy, the whole time. Took a step forward, all at once as dangerous and single-minded a predator as Penny had ever seen.

"Who did it?" John demanded, with an edge to his voice that promised, rather than threatened.

Penelope attempted to intercede, reaching up to place a calming hand on his tense, rock-like shoulder. John shook her off. Across the room, Rigby blanched, but did not back down.

"I don't know," he said. "Believe me, Mr. Tracy, if I had any clue, I'd…"

"You're one of them. The GDF. You were with him. What the h*ll happened?!"

John looked ready to spring. As though he wanted nothing more than to tear the Marine limb from limb. Captain Taylor stepped between them first, however.

"Jase," he snapped, "simmer down. Bein' present at th' scene don't prove nuthin', an' we got body-cam feed whut shows Wyatt, here, clear acrost th' transmission chamber, tryna save Doc Richey. Plus, well…" turning his head slightly, whilst keeping those stern, blue-grey eyes fixed upon John's ocean-green ones, the older man ordered, "Tell 'im, Wyatt."

Captain Rigby cleared his throat and nodded once, saying,

"I've, um… quit. The GDF, that is. Not working for them, anymore. Not till I find out for sure that they weren't involved." A muscle twitched in his right cheek as he went on, very quietly, "I've resigned my commission in the Corps."

John inhaled sharply. Would have said God-knows-what. Only then, the door to Scott's treatment room swung open.