Dark Universe Series: Prison Break.

Chapter 2.

Brains made his way down to the far side of the swimming pool. He still wasn't very sure what he was doing here on the island, except that Jeff Tracy had made him an offer only an idiot would refuse. And the carte blanche use of a near bottomless check book was most attractive. He'd been having some difficulty generating funding, and for the sake of churning out blueprints for a few measly little rockets he could have all the funds a young scientist could dream of to finance more interesting projects.

One of his favorite projects was currently AWOL.

Near the cliff edge, the two youngest brothers were dissolutely driving golf balls over the precipice.

"FORE!" yelled Gordon.

Alan lined up for a shot.

"E-e-excuse me?" Brains enquired.

"FORE!" yelled Alan.

The brothers put their heads together and watched as the ball rose into the air then disappeared from view.

"Nice shot," Gordon commented. Brains frowned, a little confused. He didn't know much about golf, but he was pretty sure you were supposed to have something to aim at.

Alan replaced his divot, and Gordon put another ball on his tee.

"E-e-excuse me?" Brains enquired a bit louder. He cleared his throat quite loudly.

Gordon swung around wearily, leaning on his driver. "Yes?" he snapped.

Brains regarded him nervously. "I was – er...just er..er...wondering…er…"

"No," Gordon said, turning his attention back to the ball.

"…whether a-a-anyone had seen Braman."

"Braman?" Alan asked.

"My robot."

"What does it look like?"

Brains hesitantly waved a hand about six or eight inches above his head "…a-a-and sort of ah-ah-metal. Ish."

Alan looked at Gordon. They pursed their lips and shook their heads at one another.

"I-I-it's just i-i-it's kind of delicate. And very e-e-expensive."

Gordon drew back his club and thwacked the ball smartly. "FORE!" he yelled.

Brains began to back away, muttering. "I-I-I have to meet S-Scott in the laboratory. I-i-if you see Braman, tell him I'm looking for him."

He fled.

Alan hit the next ball. "FORE!" he yelled.

Below the cliffs, among the rock pools, thirty million dollars worth of cybernetics scrambled as fast as it could through the salt water and seaweed on slightly unsteady metal legs, clutching a bucket with which to catch the little white balls raining from the skies.

…

Virgil pulled the stocking he'd swiped from Tin-Tin's closet down over his face, and slammed a cartridge into his sawn-off shotgun.

Butterflies played in his stomach. He couldn't help thinking that this wasn't one of Scott's better ideas. He rubbed the spot behind his ear where Brains had injected an electronic tracer. While it was good to know it was there, he did wish the damn thing would stop the strange whining noise it made.

He waited until the store emptied of the last customers, and the lights dimmed, then he climbed out of the car and headed for the entrance.

Virgil burst through the door and fired off a sharp burst that went straight through the roof, blasting a huge hole in the ceiling. A fine lattice of plaster descended. Somewhere up above there was a sound that sounded suspiciously like roof tiles slithering to the ground.

A high-pitched screech came from the other end of the room. "Jesus wept!" the screecher blasphemed.

Virgil wiped plaster-dust off the stocking mask and coughed. The effect had been a little more dramatic than he'd anticipated.

"Jeez, fella!" the store-keeper protested, straightening up behind his counter and looking upwards at the damage. "What did'y hafta do that for? I only done plasterin' it last week."

"Er- I'm sorry," Virgil muttered.

"Sorry don't cover it, fella. That roof cost me three months takin's."

Virgil grimaced. "Three months?"

"Where in all creation am I gonna get the money to do it all up again? I'm livin' hand-to-mouth as it is. Oh man, oh man, oh man."

"Look, I don't want trouble. I just came for your…"

"I mean, just look at it!" The store-keeper screeched again, gesturing wildly at the hole in the roof. "You know how long that's gonna take to fix it, huh? Look at the mess. It's gonna take me for ever just to clean up the mess of those damned bottles. Be lucky if I can sell a thing in here now. An' no-one'll wanna come in here if they know there's crazy guys with guns on this side of the door. Aw, hell, this is just the end, man. That's me done for. That's it. Out on the street. Just the little guy, tryin' his damndest to make ends meet, and some crazy drunk comes in lookin' fer free booze an' shootin' up the place and puts me outta business. Might as well just end it all now."

"Er - take it easy, buddy," Virgil said, licking his lips nervously.

The store-keeper gave him a 'bring it on' gesture. "C'mon fella. Might as well finish the job. Put me out of my miserable existence. Let me have it. Both barrels."

Virgil flung five hundred dollars down on the counter, and fled.

…

Four thousand miles away, Scott's head was beginning to ache.

He was rapidly revising his assessment of Brains as 'accommodating'. For the past hour and three-quarters, the man had done nothing but tell him why this, that and the other just couldn't be done. It was so frustrating.

He and Brains had been going over the plans for the Thunderbird vehicles that were going to be an integral part of the rescues. Scott hadn't been pleased that Thunderbird Three was going to be quite so big. As he patiently explained to Brains, this had all the signs of disrupting a dominance hierarchy he'd spent twenty years carefully establishing. But he was in concessionary mood, and at length he'd conceded that size wasn't everything (though try telling Alan that), and that, yes, a substantial amount of rocket fuel required a substantial storage capacity.

However, the decision to site the launch pad for Thunderbird One in the island's extinct volcanic crater was one straw too many.

"Brains, the idea is that this should be a rapid response unit. How can it be a rapid response if it takes me half an hour to get to the vehicle?"

"But…ah…ah…there's nowhere nearer to the house to site it, Scott."

"Sure there is. We have an underground silo just yards away."

"U-u-underneath the swimming pool, yes, I-I u-u-understand, but the clearance is too narrow e-e-even for a VTOL, Scott. If you wanted to launch a plane from under the swimming pool you should ah-ah-have built a bigger swimming pool in the first place."

Scott rubbed his temples. "It's Olympic size, for Pete's sake."

"First you w-w-wanted the rocket bigger, now you want her smaller," Brains said with annoying smugness. "Can't you ah-ah-make your mind up?"

"Smaller."

"Can't be done."

Scott clutched at his hair agitatedly. "Then fire her up vertically."

"That would necessitate an airborne rotation. Nobody's e-e-ever tried such a thing."

"Then be the first, Brains. It's gonna come up through the swimming pool."

"I-i-it's gonna come up through the crater, Scott," the young scientist said stubbornly.

Irritated, Scott hit the wall with a clenched fist, accidentally breaking the internal door locking mechanism. He swore softly when he saw the damage he'd done. He really had to do something about his temper. He leant his forehead against the wall, closed his eyes, and started to recite the internal litany taught to him by his childhood psychiatrist (the one he'd liked, not the one who'd committed suicide).

I am in control, he told himself. I will not give in to my feelings of frustration. I will not rise to this argument. The funny little man is not deliberately trying to provoke or antagonize me. This is not personal. If I make the effort to like and respect the funny little man, then the funny little man may learn to like and respect me. The funny little man has thoughts and feelings, just like I do. I will try to maintain a sense of humor at all times. I will conduct myself with dignity and poise. I will take a deep breath, now, and I will walk away and come back when I am better able to handle the situation.

Scott straightened, and took a deep breath. He looked Brains straight in the eye the way Dr Wallaby had taught him. Then he gave what he hoped was a reassuring, if somewhat solemn smile, and said in a gently sad tone "Goodbye, Brains," before exiting.

Outside the closed door, though, he couldn't quite hold it together, and gave the wall another good thump with the palm of his hand, not noticing that he caught the external locking mechanism as he did so.

Then he shook his head. He was going to bed now. In the morning, he'd come back with his tool kit and mend the damage he'd done in Brains' lab, just to show willing.

...