Sorry about yesterday. Was busy cleaning out Mum's house. Thanks for reviewing, guys. Will respond forthwith, I promise. :')

9

Thunderbird 3, down in the cavernous, brightly-lit hold:

Virgil Tracy was hard at work in zero-G, putting together a space-rated pod vehicle. Alone, because Gordon was out there on weapons and Mega-Max.

"What're we gonna need?" the dark-haired cargo pilot had asked Scott (once he'd mastered his own swooping and heavering guts, that is).

The field commander thought for a moment, looked up from the copilot's seat, and shrugged.

"You're the expert, Virge," he'd said. "Use your imagination. Surprise me."

Yeah. Just needed something that could cross miles of hard vacuum in the middle of a space pirate/ GDF dogfight, and still face up to a ship-load of bloodthirsty alien nanites. No pressure, at all.

Down in the hold, now, Virgil began with your basic, bright yellow chassis, souped up the shielding and windows, added an airlock, then programmed six spidery limbs, thinking: The best defense is a good offense.

Then drifted backward to watch, as laser cutters and grasping claws were attached to the nascent vehicle by long-armed industrial robots. The finishing touches were a small, but powerful, ion drive and a nuclear energy source.

For fifteen minutes, maybe, the hold rang with clanging, whirring and pounding noises. Just another kind of music, to which Virgil added background humming and ribald, catchy lyrics. He'd just made up the second verse, when he became aware that he wasn't alone in the hold, anymore. Kane had wandered down, too; actually walking, because his cyborg limbs reflexively altered their magnetic field to grip and release surrounding metal. Nice trick.

"What are you doing?" the Mechanic demanded, looking around at all that activity. Feeling sort of vulnerable just floating there, Virgil said,

"Singing."

"Not that. Your random noise doesn't interest me. Why are you building a drone, that way?"

As if to demonstrate his own superiority, the big, tattooed cyborg stretched a hand out and concentrated. All over the hold, tools, mechs and bits of odd metal came flying at his call, assembling themselves into something about the size of Virgil's forearm. When complete, it looked like a saw-bladed, pocket knife preying mantis. The thing glowed briefly, stared at Kane as if imprinting on its creator, and beeped a few times. Then it skittered over his arm and onto the cyborg's broad shoulders. A drone. He'd created a battle-drone, just like that.

"My way's better," Kane grunted.

Virgil didn't answer immediately. Just hung there in midair, still watching his own loudly developing pod vehicle. Then, eaten alive by curiosity, he asked,

"That's your, um… 'power'? Building things and making them come alive? I thought it was being a cyborg."

They weren't looking at each other, but it was the closest they'd ever come to an actual conversation. Said Kane,

"They relate. I was implanted at 'birth' by the Mother of Cyborgs. I control my circuitry, like I do any other machine. Build whatever parts I need, bring them alive, and attach them."

Huh.

"Regular people can't do that…" Virgil mused aloud, rubbing at his own bluish beard-shadow. "But John's got some circuits; from the suit, I think. That's part of the reason he's out of the Space Corps, now. That crap's illegal."

The Mechanic shrugged, sounding like a low-speed shopping cart crash.

"You lot are so cross-bred, it's no shock you're developing freak abilities," he rumbled, watching Virgil's space pod come slowly together.

The small craft was nearly finished. They'd be ready to go on his end, in no time at all. Even with Brains' experimental Mass-Transfer Field in place, though, it was going to take an hour or two to reach the no-fly zone. Time enough to go back to a sore point, and pick at a scab.

"You said that all of those families rebelled. Killed their handlers. We didn't… did we? Kill anyone?"

The Mechanic turned his head slightly to gaze at Virgil, who still hung drifting and bobbing at the whim of gesture and current. Kane's expression was genuinely baffled, his amber eyes narrow.

"Why does it matter? They breed like roaches. Kill one, ten thousand more scuttle for safety."

Virgil scowled, reaching for a very important idea.

"Because the way we are now, came from dad and mom… from Granddad and Grandma, all the way back to that… 'cell-line' Tracy you were talking about, Kane. If we wouldn't do that, now, I bet he wouldn't have, then. Bet they picked him for athletic skills and good looks, not killer instinct."

The Mechanic grunted; the noise a cross between prize bull and steam engine.

"The way you are is dead, soon enough," he remarked. "The other families are getting angry, and those vermin you mate with won't be able to pro… Wait."

The Mechanic's gaze seemed to un-focus momentarily. Then, with maybe a touch less arrogant confidence, he said,

"I am summoned," and left the hold, using his magnetizable limbs to just walk right on out of there. Really nice trick.

Leaving Virgil to practice magno-walking, Kane made his way to a storage locker. Needed no palmprint or code to get in, because there was nothing on that Bird that would resist him, if he chose to command it. The call was another matter, entirely. Private, and potentially somewhat embarrassing. Briefly considered ignoring the message… only, the threat they all faced wouldn't let him. So, into the locker with Kane; where, hatch tightly closed, he selected: receive.

"Madame," he growled, making a very slight nod when the Kane's image appeared before him; half gleaming chrome, half lovely woman.

"Evan," she replied, in a voice like clashing metal and static. "Where are you?"

It was very difficult for one cyborg to completely hide from the others. They were networked to such a degree that even encryption would only provide so much cover. Now, he'd left Earth, though. He'd gone pretty far out of the comm web.

"I am in Thunderbird 3," he admitted.

The Kane's dark eyebrow lifted, on her meat side. On the other, that red-glowing eye gained partial target-lock.

"You have attacked the Tracys?" she asked him, uneasily.

"No." A short response, because he did not wish to tell her the truth.

"You stole their spacecraft?" The Kane probed. Concerned about the accord, most likely.

"No, Madame. I am… a passenger."

And then he explained, as briefly as possible, the threat posed by that alien derelict and its cargo of nanite 'dust'.

"It is not my place to suggest it," the Mechanic went on, in a grudging rumble, "but a meeting might prove… helpful."

Gail Kane's face was not terribly expressive. He detected deep unease and concern, however. Soon, that feeling would spread to his sisters.

"The Tracys would be unwelcome, while the Dos Santos are nearly gone," she objected, sounding like an old-style and badly-tuned radio.

"The time benders have been hunted almost to extinction," he agreed, having accounted for several, himself. "Except, there may be no choice but cooperation, Madame. This thing is too much for the Tracys, I think, even with my help."

She looked at him, reaching out to strengthen their link with a few cautious pings. The Mechanic allowed it, for the first time since earning his name.

"I will call," she said, "and we shall see who comes. For now, do nothing to risk your continued existence, Evan. You have great value."

Some of that Tracy foolishness was rubbing off on him, Kane supposed. Otherwise, those words wouldn't have resonated so deeply.

In any case, it was a confused and truculent Mechanic who signed off and pushed his way out of that storage locker. He had strategy to plan, and, unfortunately… only this mongrel lot to plan it with. Decided to head back and speak with the least offensive cur; Virgil Tracy.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Outside of Thunderbird 3, up to his elbows in Mega-Max:

The Higgs Boson Mass-Transfer Field created rippling patterns of coloured light, almost obscuring Mars, and those diamond-chip stars. Gordon had never seen anything like it, but he was too busy, too heart-sick, to pay much attention.

Something was wrong, and he could feel it right down to his bones; what he'd always jokingly called his "squid sense". Like he'd left somebody behind, or forgotten them, somewhere. He could still half-hear that crying sound; intermittent, now, and getting fainter.

Had he been one of his own rescued patients, Gordon would have suspected a concussion, or lack of sleep, but… maybe there was another answer? Maybe that timeline shift had left someone stranded? Somebody no one but him still remembered? He just didn't know, and the worry was killing him. John or Brains could've answered that question. He was just lunk-headed muscle; IR's subsurface rescue guy and part-time field medic.

Driven to hurry, Gordon Tracy worked; zipping around the outside of Thunderbird 3 like a seagull. Only, instead of diving for chum, he was adding power-packs and ruby lenses to Mega-Max, increasing the range and force of the robot's laser.

At one point, a sort of red, specular glow flared over Max, and the rocket ship, too. Even Gordon's helmet and pressure suit got the treatment, which was halfway familiar, and seemed to do nothing at all… at first.

"How's it coming out there, Gordon?" Scott called over the helmet comm (from both sides at once, which was kind of disorienting).

"Almost done," the swimmer promised, pausing in his darting repair flight long enough to wave at his brothers, on the other side of that long row of windows. "Two more power-packs, and Mega-Max, here, could drill through the Moon."

"Heh!" Alan chortled. "He could make a rapid-transit tunnel for Captain Taylor! Think we could see it from Earth?"

"Um… probably not, Bro. 240,000 miles is pretty far."

Al was a great guy, but, sometimes… yeah. He didn't make a whole lot of sense. Scott took the conversation back, saying,

"Virgil's got the space-pod done, and we'll be cutting speed in about thirty minutes, Gordon. Need you back inside, before we start encountering battle debris. Pete says they haven't nailed our intruder, yet, so I'm planning to fire chaff and just outline it for Al's grappling arms."

Inside of his helmet, Gordon nodded.

"Gotcha. Guess the pirate ship can't be very big, or those Interceptors would've snagged it, by now." Which was sort of weird, because pirates liked size, in his experience.

Locking that last massive power-pack into place, Gordon snapped down the cover and received a grateful lights-show from Max. Some of that sparkling red stuff followed his hand like static, as he gave the robot a quick thumbs-up. One of Max's big white lens covers drooped in a ponderous wink.

"You're welcome, Pal," Gordon told him.

Twenty-five minutes to go, so he tidied up, and then followed his thin, sparking tether back to the airlock. For no special reason, except that it mattered, he thought: Hang on, Big Guy. We're coming.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Mars Base, 2 AM local time, at the domed command centre-

Vice Admiral McCord leaned across his comm officer's left shoulder to look at the screen. Still nothing. No ship, no explosion, no response to their hails. And yet, the intruder was out there. He had two downed Interceptors, a fading ion exhaust trail and mass anomalies to prove it. Also had a giant, Earth-crossing impactor, about to pass Deimos. The entire, crowded command centre crackled with tension.

The comm officer, a youngish guy with dark skin and brown eyes, ventured,

"Sir… shall I recall the Interceptors?"

They were clearly visible on the comm screen as a cloud of blinking green dots, now dangerously close to that derelict alien ship.

Pete straightened up. This far from Earth, he wasn't paid to consult, or call home for permission. He was expected to make his own d*mn decisions, and be ready to face a tribunal, if his choices turned out to be wrong.

He was also a short, balding, red-haired and foul-mouthed firecracker of a man, and the best d*mn officer the GDF Navy could boast. Now, he said,

"Tell 'em to drop back five-thousand klicks, and make a broad aisle… then, shut down the station on Deimos. No signal, no power, until I give the all-clear. We'll power-down here, as well. Defcon 2, Lieutenant. Bare minimums across the board, and total silence."

"Yes, Sir," the kid responded, switching GDF defcon settings to orange: imminent threat.

As all around him, lights dimmed, and screens went dark, Pete moved to the shielded dome's wide, perma-glass window. He wanted a look at that sonuvabitch, which early sensor tracks had placed right about… there.

"Holy sh*t," McCord whispered, watching the stars black out behind something almost impossibly huge and slowly tumbling. Like someone had flung a giant, slow-spinning dagger, aimed straight for the Earth. Mass sensors weren't operational, but they all felt it pass by. Felt its pull, like a strange, too-close dark moon.

Forgetting silence, the base commander pivoted to face his wide-eyed comm officer, barking,

"Gates, recall my fighters, now. The h*ll with that pirate ship… have the squadron retreat and re-muster out on the far side. Point Alpha."

"Yessir!" The kid was already on it. Probably 'd had his finger just over the comm button, waiting. For that matter, his gunners were doing the same, both straining like Dobermans fighting their chain to attack. Looking up from his station, Gates asked,

"The two downed Interceptors, Sir? Captain Li wants permission to tow, Admiral. At least one of the pilots is still alive in there, Sir."

Dammit. There was no time to think. No time to dither. Those fighters were speedy sons of bitches, but they hadn't much tow-power. Muttering,

"Where the f*ck's International Rescue?" Pete made up his mind.

"Yeah," he said. "Give the go-ahead for S&R, then get me Thunderbird 5. Priority line, shielded channel."