Chap 18
Myfanwy skitters along. Moving fast. Climbs up and ever so carefully peers over the ridgeline.
The Cosmos is down below. And beneath it, his feet sticking out as works on something, Ianto. He messed with her once; she recognizes him. If she could bare her teeth like an angry dog, she would. Myfanwy considers for a moment. Makes her move.
She comes down the hill. Twelve, sixteen, twenty-foot strides. Doing forty or fifty miles an hour easy. And all but silently. Ianto hasn't yet responded. And then she's all the way to him. She rears up to strike and -Ianto, in his skivvies, bursts up from where he's buried himself in the sand, avenging, entrenching tool high over his head, already swinging as she wheels back around and...He chops off both her eyes. Sidesteps as she rushes him blindly and backhands her in her electronic Marine skull from behind.
Whatever he's hit, the jolt stiffens his arm, throws him off. The tool stays embedded. She runs headlong into the Cosmos. Smashes, stumbles, falls. And before she can get back up to her feet...He wraps the sleeve of his shirt around his hand, rescues the entrenching tool and deals a death stroke to the silver arachnid.
"Robust real-time response to the environment, my butt." Ianto pants as he grabs his satchel of tools and begins to unbolt her as fast as he can. Checks his watch. Whatever he's racing, there's only minutes to go.
Deep within the electronic entrails of Myfanwy, he dredges up her Source. Size of a soda can. A power cell that runs her for year and a half.
"Work." He whispers his plea to the heavens as much as to the battery, ripping open a panel on the Cosmos, yanks out the dead cell and hooks the new one in. It doesn't fit. He's got nothing left but a couple of wrenches and a tube of epoxy. Glues it in place.
Runs the launch Diagnostics on his HCC. It flickers, goes to yellow, flashes on and off to green. He yanks back on his suit. Grabs a handful of the uncharred worms and seals them in the container that held the Source.
Stuffs it in a side pocket. Looks at the top of SRV. Wedges himself under some cables and wiring on the top.
"This oughta be interesting." Ianto swallows and then closes his eyes.
Checks his watch. It's now or never.
.
.
.
The ship is just about to enter the darkside.
Jack's got his suit on. Screens show the peak launch and a slingshot around the backside.
"Houston, this is Torchwood. I am go for return ignition." Jack informs Mission Control.
"Copy that, Torchwood, you are go for return." Rhys' voice booms.
Torchwood slides into the darkness.
.
.
.
Ianto watches the time come around, takes a deep breath, and...
"Fuck you, Mars."
...slaps the helmet shut. Hits ignition. Nothing happens. Then the crunching of thirty-year-old mechanics. And then a flaming great roar.
And it launches.
Ianto, stuck to the top, is pinned flat. Face squashes, eyes bulge. Ship starts to show resistance burn. Thirty-year-old paint chips off like tiny shooting stars burning away as this reverse comet leaves the atmosphere.
Ianto is roaring at the top of his lungs as the Rocket climbs.
The engines splutter and fail. Fuel's expended.
Soundless. He comes skittering back from the edge of blacking out. He floats silently, orbiting the planet, slowing receding into the distance. Until he's...gone.
Jack is calmly making the last of his preparations. Downhearted and slow. He's strapped in now. Counter on a screen is ticking down. 13, 12, 11...he tries to allay his horror at what he's doing. Reaches for the mike.
"Ianto" He says softly as he closes his eyes, "If you can still hear me...I'm so sorry. And I shoulda just kissed you."
Radio, three-quarters cooked, lays there on the still-smoking ground.
Countdown continues. Nine, eight, seven...Then just breaking the horizon way out in front of him, a shiny metallic speck breaches into the light. It's a man, glued to a 30 year old rocket. Four, three...he slams down an abort button, as with the other hand he twists the radio over to the suit-to-suit frequency.
"Ianto?"
No response.
Ianto is sucking on a few useless raspy breaths. He can see him, ten kilometres away. Barely hanging on.
"No. Air." Ianto gasps.
Mission Control stares up at the screen awaiting Torchwood's return ignition.
"She should be clearing. Starting the burn." Rhys mutters as they search for signs of the vessel.
She's not showing. Still not showing.
"There's secondary object in orbit." Gwen gasps and they all rush to see her screen.
Jack flipped a set of joysticks out from underneath the dash in front of him. He's shouting at the computer.
"Reroute. Orbital manoeuvring. Power the OMS, power the R.C.S. I need roll, pitch, yaw, X, Y, Z. Now. Goddammit now!" Jack roars as he slams his fist into the control panel.
They've figured out what's up down at Mission Control. Some are thrilled, others are freaked.
"No! No, there's no fuel for manoeuvring. Stop him!" Yvonne cries but Rhys shakes his head. Not a chance. Nor would he listen to him.
"He is going to burn fuel to rescue this man without enough to come home?" Borokovski asks with wonder, "I like this guy."
Which is exactly what Jack does.
"I want ten millilitre bursts. Now!" Jack demands and he watches the lights flicker.
And puff, puff, puff...
Torchwood, bit by bit, dives down into a smaller orbit to catch up with the Cosmos.
Jack grabs the whole orbital manoeuvring assembly, yanks it out of the flight deck, turns and rushes from the sphere.
As Ianto watches it come closer, he's depleted what little air there was in the suit. And starts to die.
It's now an empty docking port. Jack careens in. No artificial gravity here. Floats as he shouts at the computer. "I want a 180 degree. Now!"
Puff, puff...The ship turns end over end. As Jack plugs the manoeuvring deck in with one hand, slaps an oxygen bottle on and his helmet shut. "Seal this level! Open the dock."
Clips himself in just in time as the airlock behind him bangs shut and the giant doors in front of him open. Air purges. And in front of him, 300 yards away, is the Cosmos.