Hey, guys. :0) Thank you for reading. Éditéd more, sorry!

11

Shooting into the Chaos Cruiser, through tunnel and airlock-

First thing he noticed was blood, floating in quivery red droplets like a 3D curtain of rubies. There was some on the bulkheads, too, making odd little splotches and trails, in the direction of that massive black alien ship. Gordon felt its pull, himself, as he soared through a short passageway and into the cockpit. Yeah. No pirates, no reporters. Worse.

Saw the Hood, frozen in mid-snarl, a blood-spurting Havok, still strapped in and hunched-over, and Fuse, caught in the act of throwing a punch. All three were crammed up front near the windows; like a logjam of vicious statues. They were completely still, but for occasional bobbing and bouncing; time-locked, every one of them.

A small tooth floated by him. Reflexively, Gordon caught it, being medic enough to tuck the wee, broken thing into one of his sterile sash-pockets. Pretty clearly, the Hood had been after that ship, only then, a fight had erupted. The aquanaut took this all in at a glance. He was only half aware of his surroundings, though, because most of his attention was focused on something… someone… else.

There was a skinny young boy (light-brown hair, dark eyes) curled up floating in mid-cabin. He was wearing a loose, bloodied grey coverall, and a blinking electronic "asset control" collar. Gordon's blood pressure spiked, and his heart began racing.

The kid didn't seem able to see him. Collar prevented much thought, probably, although it… and his clothing… was beginning to look pretty old. The boy's face was swollen and bloody; his lip busted, like he'd been in a fight. Tooth must've been his.

Something like memory rose to Gordon's conscious mind like a bubble in soda. Charlie, he thought, not sure how he knew the kid's name. Just that he'd found him, again; like a dangerous, missing small brother or son.

"Hey, Big Guy," he said quietly. "It's me, Gordon Tracy. I'm gonna come over, and get that thing off you, okay?"

No answer, at first. Then, very slightly, the boy's dark brown eyes seemed to shift his way, and he made a small sound between whisper and sob. Poor little fella had to be terrified.

It was tough to control his rate of approach, while soaring in micro-gravity, but Gordon used the cockpit's bulkheads and seats to slow his brief glide. Couldn't afford to surprise or alarm a Dos Santos (Don't ask how he knew that name; he couldn't have told you, himself.)

Got there. Stopped himself with a knee and one hand to the back of a tech seat. Then, before reaching out for that d*mn collar, the sandy-haired swimmer said,

"Okay, Buddy… I'm here. Taking this junk off you, now. Get ready. You might have a headache, or something."

The kid's chocolate-brown eyes were locked on his own, desperately wide and afraid. Looked like he tried to nod, some. Gordon smiled, and kept on narrating. No sudden moves, no surprises.

"Right. Reaching up for the switch, now… ID code…? What d'you mean, ID code? I'm a Goddam Tracy. Override."

The collar's dim little computer finally recognized him as a GDF-sponsored public safety officer, and decided to comply. With a sharp click and a chime, it shut itself down and snapped open.

Then Charlie was crying, coming loose from his defensive crouch to wrap both skinny arms around Gordon, who tossed the collar like a venomous frisbee, and hugged him right back.

"It's okay, Big Guy, you're safe now. I'm here. I got you." Fished a sterile wipe out of one of his pockets, and started dabbing that cut.

The boy hiccupped convulsively, then whispered, face pressed tight to the swimmer's chest,

"Gordon, Charlie… teamwork."

"Yeah," the swimmer responded. "Charlie and Gordon, teamwork, all day."

The boy looked up at him, eyes full of doubt and confusion.

"Don't want to 'let them go', Gordon," he said, risking a glance at the statue pile-up, then looking away. "Don't like them." Voice shaking, Charlie told him, "They're doctors."

Gordon shot his own quick look at the frozen Hood and his murderous henchmen. Figured there'd be time enough to straighten the kid about medical professionals, later. For now, they just needed out.

"Don't blame you, Kiddo," he said. "I don't like them much, either. They're fine like that, till we get back to Earth. We'll just take them to Thunderbird 3, and then…"

Gordon stopped talking, thoughts cut short by the sudden appearance of his "partner". A hulking, armoured shape had emerged from the passageway, freckled with droplets of free-floating blood. The Mechanic. He wouldn't get close. Knew better. Charlie went rigid, as the cyborg's target-lock found him.

Moving fast, Gordon whipped the kid behind himself, sensing, somehow, that Kane was hunting. A weird red gleam blossomed to cover his blue pressure suit. Some kind of upgrade from Brains?

"Leave him alone," he snapped, wishing for weapons. Well… Chaos Cruiser, right? Had to be a gun locker, somewhere. In the meantime, he still had his wrist comm alert, and plenty of brothers.

"Out of my way, Tracy, or I'll shoot him right through you," the Mechanic rumbled.

"No. You might get us both, but I'm not gonna leave him. He won't hurt…"

Kane barked a harsh laugh, edging cautiously into the cockpit. Waves of menace rolled off him like steam. Perched on his muscular shoulder, the mantis-drone flexed jagged saw blades, and glared. Meanwhile, his rifle locked-on and ready, the Mechanic snarled,

"No one controls a Dos Santos."

"I'm not controlling him!" Gordon shot back. "He's controlling himself. We're friends."

"Not Dos Santos," mumbled Charlie, half-peeking past Gordon's broad back. "I'm a God dan Tracy. Going home!" His thin arms were tight around the aquanaut, who decided then and there to watch his own mouth. Cussing wasn't good for kids.

Maybe Kane-before would have shot them down without thinking. Kane-now tried to dredge up an explanation.

"They broke the accord, Tracy. At the last council. Turned everyone there to dust. No questions, no quarter. Now, get the h*ll out of my way."

"That's not how we do things," said Scott, swooping into the crowded cockpit with a taser gun and plastic manacles. Did a double-take at that tangle of villains, then arrowed right back to the narrow-eyed, bristling Mechanic. "We're working together, and we'll keep it that way… provided you don't break the law, or hurt any innocent bystanders. I don't care who that boy is. He's got our protection, Kane, just like you do. Put your gun away, then help me get the Hood and his people to 3."

The Mechanic's amber gaze flicked from Gordon to Scott, and then back again.

"You're soft," he snarled, "and you're stupid. It's a time-bender, an effing Dos Santos." Seemed disgusted and totally confused, like they'd adopted a gen-mod coyote with weaponized rabies.

"Won't hurt you," whispered Charlie, surprising them all. "Please. I promise… won't hurt you." His arms were locked tight around Gordon, who reached over to pat the kid's heaving back.

A few things jammed themselves through Kane's target-locked mind, then. First, that this was no place for a stand-off. Second, that the Mother of Cyborgs would have to be consulted, before he could guarantee not to kill what might be the very last time-bender. Third… h*ll. Soft or not, the Tracys seemed to manage. Not as stupid or weak as they looked, somehow. Even dumbass, over there, with the little Dos Santos.

After a moment, Kane grudgingly cut off his targeting laser, and re-slung that rifle. On his massive left shoulder, the battle drone sheathed about seventeen blades, and crouched down, again.

"You have names?" The Mechanic asked Gordon and Scott.

No one had noticed the cockpit's other occupant, just coming awake in an under-deck prison.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

The space pod, between Thunderbird 3 and that derelict ship-

Virgil Tracy had performed his share of alpine rescues, with high winds, freezing cold, the threat of avalanche and terrified climbers to handle. Oddly enough, this felt sort of the same.

Mars hung like a moldy orange, off to the left, partly screened by a curtain of flickering chaff. The massive black edge of that alien ship was slicing toward him, it's motion like rockfall and ax-blow, together. Only, there wasn't any wind, no rumble or screaming. No noise at all, except for the fans in his cramped little cockpit. These pods were built more for Gordon or Alan, not his own legendary proportions.

Missed Thunderbird 2, right about then. Missed Emma, as well, but the faster done, the faster home, right? As Scott would say: Mind on the mission, Virge. Nodding to the phantom brother in his head, Virgil goosed the pod's engine a little, sending it darting in front of that struggling Interceptor. This close to the massive derelict and Mars, he was fighting gravity, but counted on Alan to back him up, if he couldn't break free by himself. Out loud, the pilot remarked,

"I'm just gonna scoot out in front, like this… fire a magno-line, like so… annnd, we're in business."

He was talking to himself, because without comm, the first pilot couldn't hear him, and the other seemed to be frozen. Not explosive decompression, he figured, or the squadron commander… Cpt Mei Li, according to the golden eagle insignia by her canopy… wouldn't be out here trying to save the guy. No, something else was going on, but Virgil had no time to speculate.

Working fast, he tested the magno-line, which had attached itself behind the space fighter's bulbous nose missile. (Because firing at live ordnance was never a smart move.) Had a good lock, so Virgil throttled up and started to haul.

"Tote that baaaarge, lift that bale… you gets a little drunk, and you lands in jaaaiiiillll," he sang, nailing those low notes, precisely.

The game little space pod performed like a champ, maybe not just because Kane had made some adjustments. Certainly felt more powerful than it should have, and moved faster, too. He'd have to buy the cyborg a beer, or… y'know… a case of lantern batteries.

Mostly, Virgil focused on flying, but couldn't help stealing occasional glances at the derelict. Looked like a pocked, streaked and battered black cliff, in grand, unsettling motion. No writing or symbols that he could make out. Just a roughly oblong, terribly ancient dark ship, flipping slowly end over end, rather than gliding. Was going to miss Mars, thank God, but still seemed headed for Earth. Dead… and carrying death.

Took Virgil about ten minutes to haul the two Interceptors clear. They should have taken off to join the rest behind Mars, but weren't budging.

Okay… the other two were still in danger of being drawn in and crushed like bugs. As squadron commander, Captain Li wouldn't just leave them. He got that.

Virgil gave her a brisk wave, then retrieved the tow cable. Next, he worked his thrusters and steering rockets to turn around and start back. The alien ship seemed very much closer now, and Virgil spotted… not writing, but some kind of symbol… beside what looked like a launch bay.

'Huh,' he thought. 'Got a way in, if we ever decide we need one.' Took a few pictures, just in case. Got a faint wrist comm alert, at one point, but Scott's all-clear sounded pretty soon, afterward. Not that Virgil could just up and leave, to go help his family. His duty was right here, right now, to those two stranded pilots.

The chaff was swirling and swaying like glittery seaweed-bits in a current, drawn to the mass of that ship. Definite problems with gravity, now, and the second Interceptor pair was losing its race to escape.

Virgil increased speed and power, using a control he was ready to swear hadn't been there when he built the thing. Engine noise and vibration ramped up, as he shot forward, past a hurtling, badly-scarred hull.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Thunderbird 3, down in the engine room-

Alan darted up to the Higgs Boson Mass-Transfer generator, halting himself with a hand to its Max-white steel chassis. Had he been standing, the device would have been about waist-high, and as wide as a compact ground car. An ugly ground car.

Well, Brains built effective, not pretty. There were a few lights and panels on top, plus the proverbial big red button (their engineer loved those).

"Right…" Alan sighed. "Guess I'd better get started. Why does everyone else get all the cool jobs?!"

Decidedly grumpy (and worried that Scott might be listening) the young astronaut called up a midair virtual keypad and screen. Then he typed in the code for Brains' list of instructions.

"Wait… what?! Forty-seven steps?! You're frickin' kidding me! That'll take weeks! My whole dang life!"

Or not, if he started now. Got out his multi-tool, and viciously kicked the deck-bolted generator; a smooth move that sent him tumbling back out of the engine room. Had to brace for impact, carrom off a bulkhead, then get himself reoriented, and shoot back inside; feeling salty as heck.

"Fix the generator, Alan," he mocked, getting to work on step one (remove cover). "Tired of fixing crap! Next time, Gordon plays monkey-boy-fetch-it, and I get to go hunting for pirates!"

'Cause, yeah… it was turning out to be a very long day, even before Gordon's wrist comm alert.