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5
London, the former U.K., at the sprawling WorldGov Admin Centre-
Jeff had followed Colonel Casey into the Chancellor's spacious and well-guarded office suite. In many ways, Sebastian Shaw was the most powerful man on Earth, but he wore the distinction lightly.
His office was large, but sparsely decorated; emphasizing form and simplicity over luxurious display. His plain wooden desk was no bigger than Jeff's; the seat behind it, a simple, old-fashioned office chair with dark leather upholstery.
Shaw stood up as the two officers entered his suite. They'd been conducted within by a pretty young intern, who blushed nervously as she stuttered out,
"Ch- Chancellor, your guests have arrived. Colonel Linda Casey and… and Colonel Jeff Tracy, Milord."
Shaw smiled. The expression never quite reached his light eyes, Jeff noticed, though it did flick twin, Scott-like dimples into life. He was a large man, and quite muscular, with a taste for old-style dress and pre-conflict antiques. Wore a single, heavy gold signet ring on the third finger of his right hand, and the tailored dark suit of another era.
Nodding to the blonde young intern, he said,
"Thank you, Zara. That will be all."
The girl managed a clumsy curtsy, shot Jeff an odd, searching look, and then left the room, shutting those big wooden doors behind her. Shaw came around the desk to greet them, moving with dancer- or boxer-like grace.
"Jeff… Linda… come in, come in," he boomed. "Have a seat," the chancellor offered, indicating a group of conveniently placed chairs and low tables. Quite obviously, the chancellor did not mean to discuss business from behind a desk.
In a way, Sebastian Shaw was a handsome man, but it was a shark-like, or crocodile attractiveness, and you never felt yourself safe in his presence. Pheromones, or something. One of those men whose handshake was just a little too firm; his eye contact alarmingly intense.
Jeff Tracy might have been one of the very few people that all this didn't intimidate. Smiling back, he shook the man's hand, saying,
"Thank you for seeing us, Chancellor. We have a great deal to tell you, but it's better if it comes from Colonel Casey, I think."
Shaw turned his head to regard Linda. He had heavy sideburns, and longish dark hair which ought to have looked ridiculous, but somehow did not.
"Very well, I await your summation, Colonel Casey. Facts, please, and bare-bones analysis. Time is short, and we are pressed for solutions. Drink? I can offer you alcohol, coffee or tea. It is early here, I realize… but with jet leg, one can never assume how a visitor's clock is set. Choose, as they say, 'your poison'."
Linda took coffee; Jeff, a bourbon and soda with plenty of ice. There was a well-stocked bar at one side of the room, to the left of Shaw's giant, dimmed windows. Everyone poured their own selection… neat vodka, for the chancellor… and then they went back, and sat down.
"So, Director," said Shaw, smiling that almost-there smile of his. "What have we discovered about this impactor?"
Linda set her coffee down on the nearest, slate-topped table. She'd brought her data pad along, and could project from it, if the need arose, but decided to stick with words.
"Thunderbird 5 has the best photo-analytic and scanning capability in the world, Chancellor," she began. "The pertinent figures are contained in the report I sent from Tracy Island, but to recapitulate: the object was traveling at one-tenth light speed. Its tumble and gravitational interactions have since slowed the artifact, according to John Tracy, my primary contact."
Shaw sat back, steepled his fingers, and smiled again.
"Ah, yes…" he remarked. "Colonel Tracy's second son. A lieutenant, isn't he, in the GDF Space Corps?"
"Inactive reserve," Jeff cut in hurriedly, "owing to conflict of interest."
"I'm sure," said the Chancellor, with a nod. "Can't be two places at once, can he? And we want the eyes and ears of International Rescue right where they are, do we not? Pity your oldest boy… Scott… chose to depart the Air Corps. I am told that he exhibited tremendous potential as a fighter pilot."
Jeff kept a smile on his face, and freshened their drinks; feeling that he was swimming over very deep, dark and perilous waters.
"Scott felt that he could do more good as IR's field commander, Sir. There, he works to save lives… as we're trying to do here, today. Linda?"
"Yes," she responded, having just discreetly checked her official cell phone. "The object appears to be some form of alien vessel, or artifact, gentlemen. Again, the specifics are contained in my report, but John used the phrase: about the size of Manhattan Island, but denser. Even without the supposed nanite threat, Chancellor, that would present a problem, were it to strike the Earth."
"Obviously," agreed Shaw, downing half of his drink in one gulp. "Continue. I wish to learn more of these nanites. IR's engineer, Dr. Hackenbacker, has worked with something similar in the past, has he not?"
Jeff and Linda exchanged glances. For a politician, Shaw was unusually astute. Nodding, Casey pressed on with her report.
"Yes, Chancellor, but those are for building and repair. These… allegedly… hunt down and destroy organic life."
"Allegedly?" Shaw probed gently.
"Well, Sir… all we really have is the testimony of a few people who claim to have travelled in time. This group… which includes Dr. Hackenbacker… says that they've seen the nanites destroy human life, not just on Earth, but everywhere else, including Mars and the colonies. They point to some legends and tales from a few rescued survivors, as proof that the nanite threat, this "dust", is connected to the drifting ship."
"I see," said Shaw. "I also see that you doubt this, Colonel?" the chancellor's dark, heavy eyebrows lifted a bit as he asked; the ghost of a smile playing over his mouth.
"Sir, this is an alien artifact!" Linda blurted, leaning so far forward in her chair that she half-rose from the seat. "The first one we've encountered, except for that shard on Gliese 581c. Think of what we could learn, Chancellor Shaw! We owe it to humanity not to just throw away our one possible contact with others!"
Jeff reacted as though he'd been stabbed, reeling back in his seat, brown eyes first wide, and then slitted.
"Director," he snapped, "the witnesses are reliably proven to have visited the future. Over twenty of them were born and nearly died there. If they say that they've seen the Earth wiped bare by nanites, then I believe them! The h*ll with alien contact, get that thing out of here!"
Casey's nostrils flared, and her auburn brows lowered.
"I'm thinking of the future, Jeff!"
"Which we won't have, because…"
"Jeff, Linda… please," cut in Shaw, lifting a big, well-groomed hand. "This bickering accomplishes nothing. Now, here is my judgment, for the time being. First, the populace must be kept calm. No word of a potential strike is to be leaked to the public. Second, an evacuation plan… headed by yourself, Colonel Tracy… is to be drawn up. One that will preserve those individuals deemed worthy of survival, by removing them to Mars, or one of the nearer, more habitable colonies. Third, a way must by found to shift the, erm… "death ship's" trajectory, such that it bypasses Earth, entirely. As for these nanites, until their threat level has been determined one way or another, the artifact is strictly off limits. No-fly, no-go, except by International Rescue, and their approved scientists."
"Too late, Chancellor," whispered Linda Casey, looking up from her phone; this time, not discreetly, at all. "A cloaked vessel is headed on a direct intercept course with the artifact. It triggered the mass sensors on Guard-Sats 47 through 56."
The Chancellor's expression hardened. Turning to stare at Jeff Tracy, he said,
"I believe that this is your purview, Colonel. You, and those rather remarkable sons of yours. Stop that intruder. Now."
Shooting a complex glare at Director Casey, Jeff stood up, already hitting his wrist comm.
XXXXXXXXXX
The launch silo, in Thunderbird 1-
Scott Tracy had fallen asleep in the cockpit, again. It was comfortable, there, and private, unlike their too-crowded house. He'd drifted off with Penny's soft, musical voice in his ear, as she talked of her latest soiree.
Then, his father's message came through. Sitting bolt upright, Scott switched comm settings and fielded the call.
"Uh-oh," he responded, and, "Oh, sh*t… Yes, Sir… Yes… We're on it."
Dad wasn't happy, and no wonder, given the situation. He also wasn't his usual self; quieter, less assured. Must've been other people around, Scott figured.
"…absolutely vital that you intercept that ship, Son. Might be anything at all from the press, to pirates, but we have to assume the worst, since they're going in cloaked."
"Yes, Sir. Will you be coming back to the island, Sir?" Scott asked him, a touch of hope just brushing his thoughts.
"No, Son. I'm sorry. I'm needed here in London, but… talk to the Mechanic. There may be a way to summon extra help. Can't say anything more. Be safe, and love to your sister and grandmother. Tracy, out." And with that, Dad's image vanished.
Scott grunted, raking a hand through his dense, springy brown hair. Was about to call his brothers, but one of them, Virgil, beat him to the punch, almost literally. Virge was out there on the boarding gantry, hammering at his perma-glass canopy. The noise was like cannon fire. Virgil didn't look very happy, either. Well, take a number and get in line; t-shirts on sale at the rear.
Hitting a few switches, Scott opened the Bird's canopy and extended his seat. Ratchets clicked, servos whined, pushing Scott from the sheltering cockpit, out to that huge, echoing launch silo.
"Listen, Virge…" he began, but his younger brother wasn't having any.
"No, you listen, Scott! I was talking to the Mechanic. We both were. He said… He's lying, Scott! He has to be lying."
The last part was delivered as an almost inaudible, deeply bewildered whisper. Scott was out of his seat by this point, and not much inclined to sympathy. Too-much-and-a-half going on.
"Lying about what, Virgil?" he demanded, counting silently backward from five.
His brother looked up from studying the softly vibrating metal gantry beneath them; handsome face drawn, dark eyes bleak and wounded.
"Just a lot of dumbass kid-stuff. Those stories about "Specials". He says they're all true, and… and that we're some kind of freak genetic experiments, but it's a lie. Dad would've told us, or Uncle Lee. I mean…"
Scott shifted position, but his reaction, or lack thereof, said it all. Virgil's expression changed; moving from pained denial, to comprehension, and then right on to fury.
"You bastard," he growled. "You knew. You've heard this before!"
Scott held his ground, snapping,
"Virgil… A: Dad said something like that, but it was need-to-know. Told me to keep it quiet. His idea, not mine. B: We've got some idiot news hound or scavenger crew defying the no-fly zone to reach that derelict. C: What the h*ll difference does it make where we came from? It's what we're doing that counts. Promise you, Virge, as soon as the dust settles, I'll sit you guys down and tell you everything he told me… but, right now, we've got a train to catch, Buddy. You with me? 'Cause I can't f*cking do this, alone."
Virgil Tracy had been breathing hard, those massive muscles of his bunching up like piled boulders. Now, he relaxed some, and nodded.
"Yeah, Scott. I'm with you. We all are. It's just… we're not weapons. We're not some mutated cell-line. We're people."
"We're Tracys," Scott agreed, clasping the pilot's broad shoulder. Then, "Call Brains and the others, even… H*ll, why not? Get Caleb, and the Mechanic. We'll meet in hangar 3, and we launch in fifteen minutes. Move."
XXXXXXXXXXXX
Beachside, in warm, surging waters-
Gordon Tracy swam it out, as always. He was restless and troubled, so he turned to the sea. Dark waves lifted and crashed, touched at their crests by green phosphorescence. The aquanaut rose and fell right along with them, practicing every stroke that he knew.
Yes, it was dangerous, swimming at night and alone. No, he didn't care. Couldn't sleep, anyway. Might as well work on his form, maybe nap on the beach when he'd worn himself out. If he could.
Having swum out as far as the lava-block seawall, Gordon lifted his head, took a deep breath, and flip-turned. Bitter water and bubbles roared in his ears like music. Whenever his head was up, a whistling wind took over, gusty and loud. Behind it all, like a half-tuned, inescapable radio signal, he heard crying; some lost little kid, out there, alone.
Maybe he was going crazy. Maybe he was being haunted, but Gordon didn't think so. He thought… he thought that someone desperately needed his help, and was trying real hard to get through. Except, Gordon didn't know who the kid was, or how to find him. Didn't know where to turn for help, either. Just swam through the darkness, racking his brain and trying to think.
He was about halfway to shore when his wrist comm went off, blinking a bright red alert.
'Thank God,' Gordon though, redoubling his pace for the beach. 'Action, at last!'
…and maybe some answers, too.