Hi, guys. =) Thank you for all of your kind and insightful reviews. Please forgive my delayed response. I've been living in interesting times, again. Edited.

21

Mars Base, within the frenzied hangar and freight complex-

Kane stood at the back of a massive cargo container, fighting for more than his life. Being a cyborg, he was part machine and part meat, with circuitry that lanced from metal components, all through his flesh and his nervous system. A human doctor would have had fits, trying to figure that mishmash out. An electrician would have given up in disgust. Nothing about the Mechanic was completely organic, and hadn't been, since his implantation at three years of age.

All of this created some very strange problems. For one thing, he required more power input than a human could get by just eating. For another, he was somewhat vulnerable to cyber-attack.

Stupid! Too distracted. Had thought himself 'safe'. Something more than a virus had worked its way into his systems, Kane noticed, and now it was trying to take control. The Mechanic fought back; running self-check/ isolate/ defrag. If he could keep it out of his command core, the cyborg figured, he had a slim chance to stay free.

Like crimson fire, the intruder seemed to burn through the Mechanic's components and circuitry. His flesh grew feverishly hot, then began to blister and fry at the joinings. His cybernetic parts sparked and flared, but Kane refused to back down or stop fighting. He might be killed, but he d*mn well wouldn't surrender.

His own internal defenses were powerful to begin with, but the Mars Online system sent aid, as well, in the form of weapons-grade antiviral programs. Small machines and his bladed drone crowded close, draining their charge to boost his. They seemed to waver and sway in his blurring vision, reaching forward with hooks, pincers and probes to support their embattled lord.

Kane fought on, pushing that scarlet invader backward through every nerve cell; out of each node and short-circuiting component.

"Get out," he rasped hoarsely, burning to death from within, rather than submit. "All… you're going to win… is a pile of… rare steak and fried wires."

He saw something, then. A bright red, vertical line, hanging in the air before him. It shimmered and twanged like a plucked string, saying something he did not understand. Words, but meaningless to one who spoke only Basic. A deadly-powerful A.I. that his systems identified as pre-conflict, and extremely dangerous. The Martian anti-viral programs attacked it like a blizzard of swirling blue pixels. Then, the glittering line seemed to vacuum them up and vanish from sight, like someone had called it away.

Kane didn't fall. Wouldn't allow himself to. Did half-collapse for support on the damp cavern wall. One arm was braced against cold stone, the other locked like a flesh-and-steel pillar, hand on his left knee, right leg splayed backward. He was dripping sweat, sparking and charred, but free.

A battery cart had trundled up, extending its recharge limbs. Also, a motorized snack trolley. The Mechanic accepted both, and some water, as well, giving himself nearly five minutes of solid recovery time. Just pain, that's all it was… nothing he couldn't handle.

Alarms shrieked and howled in the huge, crowded hangar. Typicals were running and shouting, scurrying to get their freight ships clear of a broken gantry crane and its free-swinging load. All the distraction he needed, courtesy of Beech.

The injured cyborg got himself moving, ignoring the pain of his burns. Carts, drones and machines formed screens for him, as he wove his way among GDF gunships and parked cruisers. Cargo containers stretched themselves, eliminating gaps through which any guards might see him. In this way, helped along by everything metal on Mars, the Mechanic made it to Thunderbird 3.

The rocket stood upright on its triple engine nacelles, surrounded by blast shields and caution tape. He might have collapsed there, had Beech not yanked him into a concrete-walled bunker.

"You made it!" the younger man exulted, swinging him into the deepest, best-insulated part of that 'Oh, sh*t' blast shelter. Then, "Kane, are you sure you're up to this? You don't look too good, and the Hood…"

Shoving clear of Beech and that concrete wall, Kane straightened to full, clanking height. The drone on his right shoulder chittered and buzzed, flexing blades enough for a butcher's shop.

"The Hood owes me blood and screams, Beech. I'm going to kill him. He's going to know who did it, and why. Try to stop me, and I'll go through you." Not a threat. A guarantee.

Cody Beech took a half-step backward, then stopped. The cyborg was scorched and swaying, but fiercely determined. Obviously, he'd survived the cyber-attack. Still wanted revenge, too; with all the single-minded bloodlust of a stalking lion.

"I can't stop you," said Cody. "But I can give you something to think about, Kane. The Hood's a rogue Kyrano, but if you kill him, you may provoke war. Not sure this is the time for that. You could… maybe wait for a while? He's time-locked. Not going anywhere but a GDF prison, which might as well be a cardboard box, to you. Just saying… you could petition the Kyrano for right-of-combat, and do things legally."

"I don't petition," growled Kane, in the bunkered shadow of Thunderbird 3.

"Fine. I'll do it for you. The Kyrano's an arrogant arse, I've heard, but he probably wants the Hood dead as much as you do. Give it a chance, Kane. We deal with this alien ship, then you give me a week…"

"Three days."

"…give me three days, and then you can tear him to shreds the right way, in front of the council, with everyone watching."

After a moment, the Mechanic gave Beech a slight, sullen nod.

"I'll try things your way," he said. "But if anything goes wrong, Beech, I finish him."

"Deal," said the chaos-adept, already hard at work weaving entropy.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Earlier, leaving the Admiral's conference room-

Scott Tracy bolted up out of his seat, the motion too great for such a low-gravity world. He left the floor, entirely, soaring about five feet before hitting the ground again. Alarms and flashing lights split the thin, slightly sour air. On the cavern wall across from the holo screens, an interactive map showed the trouble spot in bright, blinking red.

"That's the hangar," snapped McCord, reaching for his comm. Then, half turning to face the Chancellor's blue-glowing image, "I'm sorry, Sir. We'll have to reschedule. McCord, out."

Shaw's scowling holo vanished like a doused candle, subtly improving the meeting room's atmosphere. Said Scott, as the grim, red-haired officer turned back around,

"We can go down there and help, Sir."

Virgil and John were already moving; Gordon and Alan just getting up.

"Do it," said Pete. "Find Captain Hesse, and follow her lead. I'll coordinate from Cent Com."

Scott nodded, saying,

"Yessir. We're on it," as he turned to sprint for the hangar. At the back of his mind was: The Hood's escaped, and he's stealing Thunderbird 3.

Meanwhile, Alan was halfway out the door, with Gordon close behind him. The swimmer would have been first, except that, as he got up to go, Charlie had reached for his hand.

"Me, too," said the boy, looking up at his friend and protector. "I could help, too, right, Gordon? Right, I could help?"

The aquanaut might've brushed him off, except that Charlie's pleading brown eyes were shadowed by genuine fear. Understandable, he figured, when absolutely everything was new, and people were trying to hunt down and kill you.

"Okay, you're in. Super-quiet, though," Gordon cautioned, swinging Charlie onto his back like a spare oxygen tank. "Stay alert, Kiddo. We don't know what's down there."

He could feel the boy nod against the back of his head. Got a sudden tight, grateful hug, too.

"Hang on, Big Guy. I'm not used to running on Mars. Might hit the ceiling, or something. You watch for trouble, up top, I'll get us to the danger zone."

Another nod.

"I got you," the boy said, repeating the best thing he'd heard in his short, hunted life. "I'm here."

And then, they were off, out of the conference room and down through that maze of passageways; consulting wall maps at every second turn. Caught up with Alan just before reaching the noisy, stirred-anthill hangar complex.

It was an enormous, gated and force-shielded cavern; bigger on the ground than it had seemed from above. Gordon and Alan soon spotted the problem. A giant steel gantry crane had lost control of its load, which now hurtled and swung like a wrecking ball. Worse, some of the nearby spaceships were fuel tankers. If struck, they could go up like a bomb, taking half of the base along with them.

Gunships, shuttles and cargo-lifters were backing away, or trying to reach the force-shielded launch bay; a giant cave mouth that opened out through a hillside, onto the dusty-red surface of Mars.

The boys started forward, but were soon flagged down by Captain Hesse. In her open helmet and green spacesuit, she looked tense, but every inch in command.

"Gordon, Alan! Need you on traffic control," she barked, over wailing sirens and engine roar. "Get as many of these spacecraft out of the hangar as possible, priority to the tankers. We need room."

"Yes, Ma'am," Gordon responded, starting to turn. Then, the captain saw Charlie.

"What's the kid doing here?" she demanded. "This is a d*mn worksite! It's dangerous!"

"He's part of the team, Captain," soothed Alan, coming over to stand beside Gordon. "Plus, there's no place else safe we can put him. He'll be fine, Captain, promise. We rescue kids every day."

Hesse shook her head disbelievingly.

"Don't have time for this," she muttered, adding, "You two, clear the hangar. You, don't wander off and get killed."

And then, she was gone, racing away to find Scott with that peculiar, low-gravity lope you soon developed on Mars. Relieved, Gordon turned to his brother.

"You back them on over, Al. Charlie and me 'll quick-speed them out of here."

His golden-blond sibling grinned at him; first punching his shoulder, then reaching over to muss Charlie's longish brown hair.

"Sounds like a plan, G-man." Nudging the boy, he added, "Keep Gordon outta trouble, Chip. Unlike me, he needs a whole lot of supervision!"

Meanwhile, further inside, the massive yellow gantry crane was in serious trouble. How so much had gone wrong so quickly, Scott had no idea. He got filled in fast, though.

"Its systems are down," John told him, scowling at an Eos-formed data screen. "Not hacked, or anything. Just completely offline."

"Can you get it back up again?" Scott asked, narrowly eyeing that pallet of swinging crates. At least, it wasn't the Hood.

"Yeah. Two minutes, max," the astronaut replied. Cracked the Martian Secure-Net in less than thirty seconds.

Meanwhile, Virgil had gone to fetch his exo-suit out of Thunderbird 3. Got a surprise inside, though. He'd raced up to the lower hatch, repeatedly jabbing at his fritzing wrist comm and sash-unit. No ladder descended, at first. Then a tide of service bots rolled up, squealing and beeping like mechanized mice. There were hundreds of them. Enough to link together, forming a staircase up to Thunderbird 3's suddenly open aft-hatch. Virgil's brown eyes widened, but he didn't question his luck, just blamed it on John, and grunted,

"Thanks, guys."

The big, handsome pilot surged up that robotic staircase, taking the "steps" three at a time in his hurry. Inside the cargo-access lock… well, his green metal exo-suit was standing there, waiting, along with Kane and that other guy, Beech.

"Wait… what're you doing here?" Virgil demanded, as he stepped backward into his open and welcoming exo-suit.

"Safeguarding a future corpse," growled the Mechanic, looking battered and fried.

"Future?" Virgil probed, feeling the exoskeleton close tightly around him, then link to cyber-contact pads on his suit. "As in, you're here, and the Hood's not dead?"

"He's alive," Kane admitted, sounding like an earthquake with a hangover.

By this time, the exo-suit had sealed up and was ready to go, increasing Virgil's strength from merely immense, to titanic.

"Please tell me you didn't cause all that?" Virgil asked, jerking a thumb at the swaying crane and its spinning, off-center load. The Mechanic shook his tattooed head.

"No. I didn't screw with the loading crane, Tracy. If I had, there would be Typicals smashed like worms on a sidewalk."

Nice. Never occurred to the young pilot to ask Cody Beech the same question. Kid looked like a grad student, not a villain, and Virgil was in a hurry.

"Okay," said the pilot. "Stay out of sight, and make sure the Hood's under control. I'm out."

"Wait," the Mechanic ordered. "Did one of you detect my presence here, and launch a cyber-attack?"

Virgil held up the hand with the glitching wrist comm and shook his gelled head.

"Electronics are a total bust right now, Kane. Maybe John's got something, but all he's doing is getting that crane back online. It wasn't us."

The Mechanic studied him for a moment, amber eyes narrow and bleak. Then, he stood down, accepting the med-kit and power packs that Virgil Tracy tossed at him.

"Aspirin. Water. And, for the love of mike, sit down. Beech, he's all yours. I gotta go."

So saying, Virgil Tracy bounded back out of Thunderbird 3. With exo-suit enhancement and Mars' one-quarter gravity, he didn't need stairs. Just leapt from cargo hatch to hangar floor, landing with a thud and a ringing clatter. Then, the big pilot hauled ass for that giant gantry crane.

Installed to shift cargo from freighter to dock, it was extremely tall and powerful, with a long, steel-alloy boom, heavy cables and a huge, claw-like "spreader" for grabbing pallets and cargo. Mounted on rails, it could roll the length of the cavern… when not disabled by tech crap and utter disaster.

Virgil could see at a glance that the lifting cable was nearly frayed through, and that the crane's operator couldn't raise or lower that wildly swaying load. He could also spot four or five quick-fixes and workarounds. Just had to climb up there.

"Virge, get that cable repaired!" Scott shouted, igniting his jetpack. John was still at work on the computer system. Barely looked up as his exopod swooped in to close around him, just shifting position to let it lock onto his arms, torso and legs with a series of sharp, snapping-turtle clicks.

Continued Scott,

"I'll get started on the load. John, hurry up and find a way to brace that boom. It's about to give way."

The astronaut nodded, red-golden hair flopping into his eyes.

"System's online," he announced, as red sparking lights zipped like St. Elmo's fire all through the cavern and crane. "It's compiling."

Like a dance, thought Virgil, clambering up the crane's heavy support boom. Scott had jetted out to the pallet, seizing hold at full burn, to help stabilize its wild swing. John had launched himself into the air, was already up at the sagging cargo boom. A swarm of Mini-Maxes poured like hissing smoke out of Thunderbird 3. They joined the astronaut, who used them, and some sort of flaring red laser, to straighten the groaning, crumpling boom.

Virgil swung hand over hand like an athletic gorilla, waving at the cab operator as he went past. She smiled and waved back. Pretty enough to wink at, but nothing else, because he was already spoken for.

At the boom-end, he seized hold of a frayed cable and abseiled on down, humming one of the new "Strength and Union" arias, by Resnick.

"Max!" he shouted, dangling from the cable's snapped end; hangar spinning and bucking around him like a carnival ride. "Get me the rest of this cable!"

One of the flitting Minis beeped and shot over, zipping down to take hold of the cable-strand's heavy, torn, other end. He wasn't strong enough to lift it, alone. Would have faltered, had a score of small delivery drones not raced up to assist. Working together, that robotic horde was able to raise the cable-end to Virgil, who took hold of both sides like a mighty, humanoid chain-link.

"Okay," he grunted, hauling upward with much more than organic strength. "Mr. Fix-it to the… urf… rescue!"

Got the ends together, then worked his shoulder laser around and fired a short, intense blast, making a rapid, tight weld. Some of those service drones flew over to join him, clamping to both ends, all the way 'round. Kane. Had to be.

Virgil got two more strands of the cable repaired, that way; feeling the joy of everything going just right. Working shoulder to shoulder with Scott, John, Max and… yeah. The Mechanic.

At last, the crane operator was able to lower her stabilized load. Scott rode it down to the floor as the hangar crew and Captain Hesse hooted and cheered. Virgil hitched a ride on the spreader; ragged-ass tired, but happy. Sometimes, see, it was the little things, the basic rescues, that made your whole day.

Of course, that was before they found out that the Hood had gone missing.

XXXXXXXXXX

FAB-1, near midnight, over Lake District National Park, former U.K.-

The car door was already open, dank, freezing winds blowing inside, Sherbert yapping his fool lungs out. Every seat restraint, plus Jeff's belt and Parker's, had been linked together to make a harness and tether, of sorts.

Had he been the hero of some romantic adventure tale, Jeff would have belted a stiff drink, kissed a pretty girl, then said something witty, and jumped. Instead, he got a peck on his unshaven cheek from Penny, who murmured,

"Luck, Colonel,"

…as he edged his way out of the hovering car. Clinging to the door frame with one hand and his makeshift tether with the other, Jeff put away thoughts of the wooded mountains and bottomless lakes, far below. Thunderbird shadow was just five or ten feet beneath them, barely visible through streaming, sodden-wool clouds. Engine noise and keening wind made it tough to be heard, but Jeff said,

"Guess you can't take the dumbass out of the Tracy, after all," and then stepped out into wet, empty space. Their tightly-knotted tether twisted and creaked, edges curling in, as it strained to bear his weight. Didn't break, or give way, though. Penny and Zara had done good work.

Easing himself downward in short bursts, Jeff forced himself not to kick or flail, not wanting to knock Tanusha unconscious. It felt like a long seven heartbeats before his booted feet finally touched something solid.

No… not solid. Had some give to it… toggled, sort of.

"Easy, Dad," shouted his daughter, hands up to clasp at his knees. "That's the pilot seat head-rest you're dancing on. Hang on, moving you back, some."

Some? He swung like pendulum, hip cracking against Thunderbird Shadow's raised canopy. That was going to leave a mark.

"Oof… Need a jetpack, like Scott… or a better retirement plan."

There followed a bit of a scramble, as he half lowered, half dropped himself into the plane's rear seat; heart racing, breath coming rapid and tasting metallic. But his daughter just laughed.

"Retirement?" she scoffed. "Tracys don't retire, Dad. Not till the world grows up and stops needing us."

Well, there was something to be said for permanent job security. Kayo helped get him into the plane and turned 'round the right way; his scrabbling feet first skimming the seat, and then down on the metal deck. She kissed his rough cheek, then, saying,

"Get that harness off, and have them haul it back up, then sit down, so I can close the canopy, Dad. And… welcome aboard."

"Right," he grunted, reaching around to unbuckle the belt, which swung loose in midair till he gave it three rapid tugs in succession. Looking up, Jeff could barely make out FAB-1, just a darker smudge in the roiling clouds. The tether swung for a moment, and then was drawn silently, invisibly upward.

"Thank you, Penelope," he said to the night and the sky, as that smudge pulled away and banked off. They would head for the Reservation, next. A short trip, as it lay nestled among the wooded valleys, hidden by clouds down below.

Tanusha placed both slim hands on his shoulders and pressed gently downward.

"Sit, Dad," she advised him. "We've got to get moving, and back into stealth mode."

"Have we been spotted?" he asked, sliding into the rear seat.

"I hope not, but if we're quick enough, it won't matter. We can lose them in two saucy shakes, I promise you. Brains took my place on Thunderbird 5, and nobody knows that I'm out here. Not even Grandma."

She was back in her own seat by this time, and at the controls, moving with the fluid grace of a panther. A swift button-press resealed the canopy, shutting out wind, noise and cold. Then, as his daughter switched from hover to flight, and back into stealth mode, she asked,

"Okay, Dad… what's going on? Why's the Chancellor trying to strong-arm you into doing everything his way? What has he got on you?"

Jeff kept busy strapping in, then looked around at the cloudy night for a bit. At last, clearing his throat, he said,

"We're headed north, TinTin. Towards Edinburgh. As for Shaw… it's a long story, Princess."

She half-turned to look at him; green eyes concerned and suspicious.

"I've got all the time in the world for long stories, Dad. Hit me. Whatever it is, I can take it."

Question was, how much truth did he owe his children? How much shelter from worry, pain and difference?