'Allo, again! =) Many 'thank you', Tikatu, Thunderbird Shadow, Whirl Girl and Bow Echo, for your kind and helpful reviews. Edited more.
10
Thunderbird 5, making ready-
The main problem wasn't aerodynamics; up here, that didn't matter. Without air to resist, the station could've been shaped like a giant video-game controller or cheeseburger, for all the difference it made to his speed and maneuverability. Plus, the force shields could be shaped and angled any way he wanted them to.
No, the real problem was inertia, and thrust. Thunderbird 5 was just big, with enough power to alter her orbit on command, but not (until now) to completely leave Earth. Not even if (as Caleb suggested) he programmed up enough elevator cable to grapple the Moon and then reeled himself in. High marks for creativity, though.
What he needed was power. An engine upgrade, or ten. Well... that's why Dad had hired Brains, whose thought processes were as far outside the envelope… h*ll, outside the whole mailbox… as John's. In very short order, the astronaut had taken delivery of three massive new engines, and a Mass-Transfer Field generator. Also, a crap-ton of maintenance bots.
His serene retreat had become a construction zone, less all the coffee breaks and speed traps. John himself, with Kayo and Captain Taylor, was as busy as an emergency room doctor on New Year's Eve night. Seemed like everything, everywhere, needed attention. Then, he received a priority call from Mars.
He'd been out on the hull, directing placement of a giant new engine, while his sister and Lee got it hooked up and linked from within. Tricky, delicate business, for all that the nuclear thruster had the mass of an old NASA space shuttle. Eos helped, sort of grudgingly. She was still mad about that stuff with Jaeger. Then,
"John, you have a priority one call, from Mars. It is tightly encrypted."
Signaling the skittering maintenance bots to take a break, John pushed off the hull and drifted to the end of his tether. Like the bots, he positioned himself in the station's shadow, because that unfiltered sunlight was fierce.
"Okay, Sweetie. Open channel," he told his AI companion, shaking his head a little and blinking, to clear away sweat.
His heads-up display showed that the signal was brief and high-energy, coded on the spin-states of a very short gamma ray stream. Fancy. Looked like the chirp of a distant star… unless you knew what it was. Lot of trouble for an address and two words: Get them. 2125 Reedy Court Lane, Saginaw Michigan, UST.
"John, this address corresponds to…"
"I know where that is, Eos," John cut her off, recognizing Pete's old house, where the base commander's former wife and teenaged daughter still lived. A long time ago, there had been barbeques and pool parties there, which he'd mostly experienced from a lofty perch on Lee's shoulders, or Pete's, while Scott hung out with Dad. Just sitting up there as a very young child, learning space. Learning astronaut. Refusing to fall asleep, or to go with his mother, when she came out there to get him.
And now, his friend and former commander wanted John to find his ex-wife and firebrand daughter. On a hunch, he checked the derelict's trajectory. Saw that it was just now passing the Deimos space weather outpost, and Mars. Thunderbird 3 was about ten minutes out, but the no-fly zone intruder hadn't been caught, yet.
"Shall I send a response, John?" Eos prompted, impatient with his organically limited processing time.
"Yeah," he decided. "Highest encryption: Will do. Then, get a team out there to the Territories, and snag Aunt Helen and Stephanie. Use my image and voice, if you have to, Eos."
"Yes, John. Where shall Helen Klein- Stephanie Rae McCord be taken?"
Good question. Things were getting pretty tight, on the Island.
"For now, have them brought to the Ranch. Tell them… tell them the horses need exercise, or something. Keep it light, but make sure they hurry. Pete's worried, and that's not a good sign." As in, major, double-plus not good.
"Understood, John. I shall proceed with casual tone, and great speed."
"I know, Pretty Girl."
John smiled, aware that she'd read his biochemistry and neural flow, picking up nothing but confidence. As Thunderbird 5 orbited, turning along with the Earth and John, the station's shadow changed; shrinking away like a puddle at noon. On sudden impulse, he called Dr. Hackenbacker over the helmet-comm.
"Y- Yes, my friend? W- What is it?" said the engineer, picking up straightaway.
"Hey. Help me think something through, here, Brains. The Mass Transfer Field works by channeling Higgs Bosons from a relativistically moving object, out to its surroundings… right?"
He could feel the engineer flinch.
"Well… minus a great deal of t- technical detail and, ah… and m- mathematics, that is essentially c- correct, John." Brains huffed. He liked his equations and data. Looking at Thunderbird 5, hanging up there in silhouette while the blue-white Earth turned below, John said,
"Okay… so space is expanding faster than light, and the galaxy's moving along pretty quick, too. That ought to be generating an ass-load of virtual mass and dark energy."
"Indeed. Why does, ah… does th- this interest you, M- My Friend?"
"Because," John's words increased in pace, as his second idea grew clearer. "If you reversed flow on your field, Brains, you could transfer enough virtual mass to pop something right the h*ll out of the universe, though an artificial singularity. I mean… couldn't you? The energy's out there, isn't it?"
The terminator's black, curving blade had just appeared at Earth's edge. Brains was quiet a while, making John worry that he'd lost their connection, or just rung off in contempt. Then,
"Y- Y- You are theoretically c- correct, John! Th- There is, ah… is n- no reason why the f- f- field may not be adapted to flow in r- reverse. Parity! The maths work, in either direction!"
John nodded, watching darkness glide across the face of the Earth, and millions of tiny lights begin sparkling on like a scatter of diamonds.
"So, if someone switches a few settings on the generator, out on 3, and then gets it transferred over to that potential impactor…"
"W- We might increase its mass p- past the Schwarzschild limit, creating a m- mini black hole and, ah… and d- destroying the alien v- vessel. John, m- my very good friend, if you were here, I would k- kiss you!"
The astronaut laughed, a very rare thing, indeed.
"Thanks, but I'd prefer a few frozen pizzas, instead. No mushrooms. They're slimy."
There was a suspicious noise over his helmet comm, which John suspected was Dr. Hackenbacker being soundly kissed by his fiancée, Professor Moffat.
"Work first," he reminded them, with mock, Scott-like severity. "Party later. Those equations won't solve themselves… but I bet you Pete would be glad to perform a wedding ceremony, once you guys save the world."
There was momentary silence, a few urgent whispers, and then Brains said,
"Y- You will stand up with, ah… with m- me? Be, as they s- say, 'best man'?"
He could hear Moffy, crying and laughing in the background.
"Glad to. Eos, I need a ring." Because, it was going to work. It had to.
XXXXXXXXXXXX
Thunderbird 3, approaching Mars, the derelict, and a swarm of departing fighters-
Most of those Interceptors had taken off for the backside of Mars like slim, darting mosquitos. Two, including the squadron commander, were still in the hurtling derelict's path; trying hard to tow their comrades to safety. Wasn't going well. Too slow. Mars Base was completely shut down, for safety's sake. There'd be no help from that quarter. Too many lives at stake.
Scott turned away from the comm screen to glance at his middle brother, floating there with one hand on the steel seat frame.
"Virge, suit up, get out there and push," he said.
The cargo pilot gave him a brief, fierce grin, saying,
"International Tow-line, to the rescue! I'm one it, Scott." And he was, flip-turning in midair and then pushing off for the pod bay, again.
While that happened, Scott half-turned his head, trying to look at both the huge, tumbling cliff of an alien nightmare, and Alan.
"Al, I want you to track the last of that ion exhaust, then fire as much chaff as you can, in its projected path. Carefully, though. We don't want to wake anything up, in there."
"Gotcha, Scott. I'll be so quiet, you could hear a virus sneeze," his blond, eager brother responded. Mind already elsewhere, Scott barely grunted. Didn't realize he was supposed to be playing along.
"See," Alan pouted, "If you were John, you'd have said: Viral particles don't sneeze, Alan… And then I'd come back with: Sure, they do, John. They're germs. They're always sick, just like credits are rich, and water's wet. Duh."
Really needing to think, Scott Tracy shot his youngest brother a withering stare and growled,
"Mind on the mission, Alan. This is serious."
"Okay. Sorry. My bad," the kid sighed. "Firing chaff… now."
But Scott had already hit his comm, using short-range and quiet mode.
"Gordon, as soon as we spot our pirate ship/ news crew, we're going in, locking hatches, and boarding. You and… and Kane. Get in, grab our nosy tourists, get out. Understood? I'll be standing by with restraints, if arrest turns out to be necessary."
"F-A-B, Scott. On our way to the docking hatch."
Scott nodded, although the swimmer couldn't see him, as they were using minimum comm; voice only.
"Take care in there, and be ready for anything," he ordered, already unstrapping to rise. Heard the low, quivering boom and chuff of a million tiny foil bits shooting off into space. Stage one initiated, he thought.
Thunderbird 3 didn't have any actual cells, but he figured that a storage locker would work, if that intruding ship turned out to be full of hostile, armed pirates. See, not everyone they rescued was happy to see them. One time, on this prison colony…
"Scott, I think I got something!" Alan called out, excitedly. Bingo.
The pilot swung himself back around with one hand to a bulkhead brace. Sure enough, looking out through the cockpit windows, he saw a blizzard of twinkling foil snow, except in one place. Not big at all… sort of familiar in shape; although, for the life of him, Scott couldn't quite place it.
"Good job, Al. Get us into docking position. Nice and easy. Our very large friend is still asleep, and I'd like it to stay that way."
They were already feeling the effects of that tremendous mass; like a partial return of gravity. Virgil had launched, he noticed, and was making his way toward the slower tow-pair; the one nearest that alien derelict. Up close, like this, the thing was dark, enormous and viciously meteor-scarred. Completely offline, but…
"Be careful, Virge," Scott whispered, giving Alan's thin shoulder a quick, 'nice work' pat. Couldn't stay to watch, though. Too much work to do, elsewhere. That's why he wasn't in the cockpit, when Brains' message came through.
XXXXXXXXXXX
Thunderbird 3, in the docking bay-
They hadn't hailed or scanned. Waste of time, with a cloaked ship. Meant that Gordon Tracy had no idea what he was going to find on the other side of that hatch. Wasn't too sure about this side, either, come to think on it.
"Let me go first," he said to the Mechanic, who was standing on the deck like he couldn't be bothered with micro-G. Kane wasn't wearing a spacesuit, exactly. Just what looked like a thick coating of transparent plastic. Gordon had no idea where that had come from. Maybe the arrogant cyborg exuded the stuff? There was a drone on his shoulder, too, giving Gordon the multiple side-eye.
"Go ahead," rumbled the Mechanic, making a sardonic, 'be my guest' gesture. "You lot are interchangeable. Something happens, you won't be missed."
Gordon stiffened a little. Smiled, saying,
"Maybe not you, but the ladies...? They'd never get over my loss." Even managed a wink.
Kane just snorted. Gordon could've said more, but decided against it. Too tense… too hurry-up-worried, anyhow. Just waited impatiently, while Alan brought the two ships in close, lined up with an airlock, and then docked them. Not easy to do, working mostly blind, like that.
There was a certain amount of jarring and thumping, before the airlock's status panel turned green, and issued a friendly chime. Gordon keyed open the docking bay's outer hatch, then led their way through a tunnel of heavy, metalized fabric to the other ship's sealed and invisible port. Seriously, all you could see on the other end of that boarding tunnel was space, a sliver of Mars, and that lumbering derelict.
From habit, the aquanaut turned his head a little to give a quick grin and thumbs-up. Then, recalling who he was in there with, Gordon just cleared his throat and said,
"We're go for entry. Give me ten minutes, then follow, unless you hear shooting, or something."
Kane grunted, which Gordon decided to take as a 'yes'. A little work with his specially patented, Aloysius Parker multi-tool would soon…
"Out of the way, mongrel," growled the Mechanic, slamming a big, plastic-slick hand to that unseen hatch. A moment's concentration, and both portals just cycled on open for him.
"Or, y'know… you could do that," Gordon half-joked. Was really one helluva glad to get into the other ship, because… pirates or newshounds… its inmates couldn't be any less friendly than Kane.
A cloaked ship from outside was rippley-invisible; inside, though, this one was smallish, sort of purple, and… and… Oh, crap. All the crap. Multi-crap. As John might've put it: Double-plus sh*t.
XXXXXXXXXXX
In the space pod, between Thunderbird 3 and the oncoming alien vessel-
Virgil Tracy was an expert pilot. Could fly anything with wings, and some things without. More than that, he was a courageous young man, who'd been raised to put others first, every time.
Maybe somewhere, deep down inside, he was pissing himself over the size of that silent, dark monster, but he didn't show it. Instead, Virgil climbed into his own sturdy handiwork, left Thunderbird 3 and made himself useful (as Grandma would say). Zipped on over to the farthest pair of Interceptors, and waved.
Safer not to use comm this close to the impactor, Virgil decided, but he cut near enough to the see inside the towing fighter craft's cockpit, and try sign language. The other pilot waved back, as Virgil said,
"Somebody call for a tow?"
XXXXXXXXXXXX
Thunderbird 3-
Alan sat back in the pilot's seat, blinking in shock. He was… legitly… flying the most dangerous mission, like, ever, and Brains wanted him to just drop everything and go fix the dang generator. Seriously?
"Um… well… I'm kinda busy not getting everyone killed right now, Brains," he explained, trying hard to sound reasonable. Scott, he was pretty sure, would've just yelled. 'What?! Blah, blah, blah, fill-in-the-blank, the thing, the thing, responsibility!' Like that, and Hackenbacker would have just withered. Only, it was Alan, not Scott, so the engineer kept on trying, over a tight-beam, encoded channel.
"Th- This is of utmost importance, Alan! By, ah… By r- reversing the field, we may be able to, ah… to m- make the artefact so massive that it b- becomes a smallish black h- hole."
"Uh…" said Alan alertly, fighting the derelict's pull on Virgil with a touch of tractor beam. "Kinda don't see how that's a win for our side, Brains. I'm already circling the drain out here, trying not to let Virgil get flushed."
"Th- Thank you for the indelible imagery, Alan. N- Now, you must switch to autopilot, go, ah… go d- down to engineering and follow the instructions I s- sent."
"Okay, see…"
"P- Perfect. I shall b- be in touch," said Brains, sounding all kinds of smiley. And then, just like that, he cut comm.
Great. Super. Just frickin' awesome! Had Virgil on the one hand, busting his butt trying to tow crippled fighters out of the way of a dangerous alien artefact. Had Gordon on the other, in a cloaked pirate ship with the dang Mechanic. And Scott… Wait a minute. Yeah… Scott.
Turning his head over one skinny shoulder, Alan yelled,
"Hey, Scott, need you to take the wheel for a minute, Bro!"
From back in the hold, very faintly, he heard,
"Told you to go before we left!"
Alan reddened to the tips of his big ears.
"Dang it, Scott!" he roared, too tense to consider his own actions. "Would you forget I'm seventeen for a second, and just frickin' listen?! Brains has another job for us! Now, you can go back to the generator, try to read all his fine print and not lose any screws… or you can fly! Your choice, Dude."
Which was no choice at all, really. After a second or two, Scott soared back into the cockpit, almost sparking with shock.
"Did you just yell at me?" he demanded. Not angry, just disbelieving.
"I raised my voice," Alan admitted, sucking up major Fruit-of-the-Loom with the ol' nuclear butt-cheek clench.
"You yelled," Scott corrected. Then, surprisingly, he just laughed it off, saying, "Okay, Al. Go do what you have to, until Gordon calls in. I got this."
Alan's sky-blue eyes widened. So… like… he wasn't dead meat? Confined to eternal quarters? On dish detail until he retired from life?
Well, sort of. Did get the back of his head cuffed, while edging past his muscular brother. But, hey… it could've been worse. As kid sib to four real life heroes, Alan Tracy was in a position to know, and to hurry.