'Allo! Bit more, before I get back to work. Thank you, Tikatu, Creative Girl, Bow Echo, Whirl Girl and Thunderbird Shadow, for reading and reviewing. You're the best. :)

33

Mars Base, down-planet-side:

As the red world convulsed, its inhabitants scattered and fled like ants disturbed at their raiding; some this way, some that, past shattering domes and collapsing structures. The underground launch-prep cavern had a giant crack in its roof, and a floor so badly buckled that nothing could roll, or much hover.

Olympos, Ascraeus, Pavonis and Arsia had opened their throats once again, shaking the ground like a snapped blanket between them. The crust itself was slipping, as those massive, unbalanced volcanoes dragged the whole landscape southward.

Lava, ash and steam blasted forth, rising much higher and spreading farther than would have been possible on Earth. Underground ice dams disintegrated, sending toxic water to the surface in huge, geyser-like plumes. Mars awoke from a billion years of frozen, mummified sleep, with a noise that deepened from screech to roar, as the atmosphere gradually thickened.

The sky had gone from clear pink to smoggy and ash-stippled blood; dropping howling lava bombs and giant boulders on the shuddering landscape below. Violet lightning flashed from the roiling tower of ash above Mount Olympos, its thunder ringing sharp as a gunshot. Mud flows and crashing floods sluiced along channels that had lain barren and dry for time beyond reckoning. Mars was awake.

Ships took off with little plan or direction, as freighter captains weren't inclined to wait for permission to leave, and worried more about cargo than people. On the bright side, evacuation had already been in progress, because of that oncoming alien death-ship. Order of launch was screwed up, though, as time and gravity waves continued to rocket through space. Down to thirty-minute changes, now, from weeks or months. That was something.

Admiral McCord was still on base, because… dammit… he wouldn't go before every last one of his people was safe. And, even then, he'd be the first man back.

The Base Commander stalked from hangar to control center and living quarters, urging the Martians to 'f*cking move!' Twice, he nearly got caught and smashed by a cave-in, but time-shifts and Captain Hesse saved his life. Saw himself go past from the side, once, crossing an intersection, and remarked,

"D*mn, that's one good-looking fella! Bet he's a real bastard, though."

…which made his officers laugh. Thunderbird 3 arrived as he was getting his next lot of refugees to the rumbling surface. The giant red rocket slid down from that sullen sky on a gout of shimmering flame, attracting miles-long spears of wild lightning.

Pete lifted a hand in greeting. He had his dark-green helmet and spacesuit on, but felt exposed, anyhow. Like the buildings and launch facilities, Martian survival gear had not been designed with geologic upheaval in mind. One bad-luck rock could ruin his day, permanently.

"Admiral," he heard, over the comm. "This is Alan Tracy, aboard Thunderbird 3. We're landing at the drone launch pad. The prototype isn't far behind. We can take forty aboard for drop-off at Asteroid-1, and Captain Taylor can pick up the rest, Sir."

"Taylor?!" Pete exploded, adding, "Oh, h*ll, no! No way I'm riding with that drunk, disease-curdled sonuvabitch! That mutant clap he picked up on Proxima's eaten up half his brain! He'll fly us right into a mountain!"

"Wisht all o' them Martian refugees was as pint-sized and loud as their d*mn commander," drawled a new voice, from a vessel just reaching orbit. "They'd be easy ta find and quick ta pack. Fit three o' them little squirts in a single seat."

Pete snorted.

"What d'you know… He actually made it! Someone else must be flying, or else that drink-pickled medical test-subject finally worked out the controls. There is a God."

…at which point, they both started laughing, freeing the frozen, huge-eyed base personnel to smile, too. Alan and Gordon just shook their heads, being far too familiar with the antics of McCord, Taylor and Tracy to take that crap seriously. Charlie picked up a few new words, though.

"Listen, Chip," said Al to the boy, who was strapped into the copilot's seat with Gordon. "If you can speed us up compared to everything else coming down out of the sky, we can maybe get those people off-planet, without being nailed by a boulder. Can you do that?"

The young time-bender took a moment to process the request, before nodding uncertainly. He very much wanted to please, and would have said 'yes', anyhow… only, Gordon had told him to tell the truth, and not to worry they might get mad.

"I could do… yeah, I could do that. But maybe not a long way. They gotsa be close, okay? Tell 'em be close." He was anxious; afraid to see Alan's expression, in case the 'other brother' was mad at him. But Gordon's big hand squeezed his shoulder, twice. Their secret signal: okay. Once, long, meant: NO.

The yellow-hair pilot nodded and smiled. He was part of 'teamwork', too. Gordon said so.

"We'll make it work, Chip. Do your thing. Gords, you got this?"

The aquanaut was already unstrapping to rise, reaching for his own helmet, and Charlie's (picked up on Mars Base, where children sometimes went out on field trips).

"We're on it, Al. Hold the fort."

They'd put down by this time, on a cracked and tilting concrete pad, barely large enough for 3's massive engine nacelles. Well, they'd landed on worse, in the course of several previous, very dangerous space rescues. Gordon took extra care going down ramp, reaching up to help his kid clamber down, too.

Something up high caught his attention, as they reached the surface. The silvery prototype, glinting like a star in the boiling skies above. Also the Sun, sliding sideways. Which… yeah, was a sight Gordon Tracy would never forget.

Out of a bruised and bloody sky, great chunks of blazing rock first slowed, then halted completely; hanging suspended in Charlie's fierce grip. (That he'd slipped holding Havok and Fuse, no one had realized, yet. Not even Charlie.)

Elsewhere, lava bombs, ash and boulders continued to fall. Just, not in a quarter-mile magic circle centered on Thunderbird 3. The whistle and crump of cascading stone… the hiss of exploding volcanoes… fell silent. Nearby, anyhow.

With gravity, Charlie could stand up, but he hung onto one of the loops on Gordon's tool belt, because it made him feel safer, and because that was the most person he wanted to help, in case stuff kept on happening, like always. He got bigger again, too, stretching the pay-suit.

Charlie could see and feel time like a blanket; something he could bunch up close, fold, or fling outward… but, not all the time. Had to ask, first… 'cept for "emergies". Sometimes, he could take someone off the blanket, all the way… but Gordon said don't do that unless they were bad, like doctors. People ran forward, pointing at a sky that looked like red jelly with grapes in, if the grapes were real hot.

Meanwhile, Lee had been searching for somewhere to land. The prototype was much larger than Thunderbird 3, which was all bang, no payload. The new Bird required a broader, more stable surface. Like the rocket, she could put down vertically, but needed a whole lot more réal estate to do it in.

Circling the base, he spotted a frantically blinking green light, about the same time that Max issued a long, worried beep. Banking hard, Taylor said,

"Looks like we got us some refugees tryin' ta reach base, folks. Might hafta put off kickin' Pete's ass a while longer." Then, as Brains turned pale and clutched at his armrests, "You okay, Doc? You don't look so good."

"I am f- fine, C- C- Captain! Please attend to, ah… to y- your flying!" McCord's joking slander had done nothing at all for Brains' confidence.

A wide grin split Taylor's rugged, mustached face. Winking at Captain Rigby (who hadn't wanted to stay safe at home) he said,

"Relax, Doc… I been flyin' since I was old enough ta see over th' instrument panel. Sat on my daddy's lap, afore that. Ain't th' plane or ship built yet, that could get one up on Lee Cooper Taylor. Now, stop pissin' y'rself, an' enjoy the ride!"

For some reason, Brains was not reassured, though Max chirped an exultant whistle, while Rigby… back in crew seating… masked a laugh with some well-faked coughing. Lee was starting to like that Marine, though honor demanded that he drink the man under the table, beat him at cards, and whup his ass at least once.

Grinning broadly, Taylor gave the engineer an encouraging pat, then set to work tracking down that signal, twisting and banking, sometimes almost at ninety degrees to the horizon, in order to dodge incoming boulders and lava. New Bird handled just fine, he figured. Rigby and Max agreed, although Brains was too busy retching to comment.

Their search took the Prototype to the mouth of a broad valley, about five miles south of the base. Its rocky delta spread like a fan in the plain below, just barely smooth enough for a landing. Lee slowed down on impellers and thrust. (A real skill, in this wafer-thin atmosphere.) Came down right in front of those jumping and waving refugees, who were flashing the lights of their ground car, and probably beeping the horn. Hard to tell, with the noise of that unshielded hull.

Lee unstrapped and debarked in a hurry, because the ground was unstable; a long crack starting to meander its way through the plain, like stony lightning. With him went Rigby and Max, in case somebody needed assistance getting aboard. Brains remained in the cockpit, minding the store.

Ten people, it turned out to be. Six jammed with their dog in a rough-terrain crawler, with more of them clinging like ticks to the top and sides. The driver, a hard-bitten colonist with a deep Mars tan and blue eyes, shook hands and said,

"Roy Masters, Elysium Reach."

"Lee Taylor, International Rescue. This is Wyatt Riggins, a Goddam Marine stowaway, disguisin' hisself as a guverment bean-counter, and that there's Mike, our backup. Need a lift?"

The colonist smiled, looking relieved.

"Thanks for the assist, Sir," he said, as his family and friends rushed up the ramp, four of them hefting the sealed dog crate. A great dane, looked like. "Took as many as I could, once that evac order went out, but there's more coming behind us. Please don't leave yet. They're my neighbors, from down in Dry Fells. They're coming."

"Ain't leavin' nobody," Lee assured him, clasping the man's work-broadened shoulder. "Pile on in, an' we'll go hunt 'em up."

Because that's what International Rescue stood for. That's what they did.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Thunderbird 3, in a certain, very crowded equipment locker-

Havok gasped her way back to consciousness, with a splitting headache and bloodied nose, to find herself wrapped with elastic cords and crushed by her hulking brother. They were in some sort of closed, dimly-lit space, and Fuse weighed a fekkin' metric tonne, he did. The brown-haired girl gave him a sudden rough shove, snarling,

"Urf! Geroff, you big ape! Shift y'r mass!"

Their purple Chaos Crew armour added to their bulk, but their implants allowed them to snap the bonds like rotten thread. Paul stretched as well as he could in the tiny locker, yawning and scratching at his tight, bleached cornrows.

"Wotcher, Evie," he said with a sleepy smile.

"It's Havok, sh*te-for-brains. Now, come on, we 'ave t' get movin'!"

"Wot 'appened?" he asked her, genially enough.

Havok's blue eyes narrowed in wrath and disgust.

"That kid done it, bet me! 'Ee mucked with time, put us down f'r a bit, and shoved us in 'eere. Reckon we're not in the Cruiser no more, an' I don't see His Nibs, either."

"Wot, th' Hood?" wondered Fuse, helping his sister get to her feet. Clattered like the Mechanic, both of them.

"'Oo else, you bloody great oaf? We gotta get out and go find 'im. No Hood, no pay, no food… you get me?"

Fuse nodded.

"I getcha, Evie. Where we gonna look, first?"

Havok rolled her blue eyes, but gave over trying to correct his use of her real name. Until he came fully awake, her brother would have trouble with all but the simplest commands. Easy enough to work out where they were, though. The locker's one hatch was printed like this: TB3 STR LKR, in one-inch block letters. Checking her armour's scanning device, she said,

"Not in 'eere, that's f'r sure. We've got two ruddy IR pilots… one I want in pieces… an' that d*mn little time-bender nearby… but no Hood. C'mon, Sib. Get that 'atch open, then we'll find a back way, an' scarper. Chaos Cruiser's not far."

Fuse grinned like a volcanic fissure, flexed big, armoured muscles, and ripped the hatch clean off its hinges, then flung it across the passageway. Havok bit back a caustic remark about stealth. The ship was already ringing with footsteps and thumps. No one had noticed their stylish exit. Nor did they find Evie Clarke's well-placed little gift, left behind, when she and Fuse evaded arrest and slunk off.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Tracy Island, in the main room-

Grandma wasn't alone for very long. Thunderbird Shadow first, then FAB-1, arrived before sunset, bringing life and noise back to her house. Sally Tracy had been farmwife and bush-pilot, then rancher, and now IR dispatcher. She was accustomed to plenty of work. A quiet house depressed her, as did not having hordes of kids and dogs underfoot. The lifts couldn't open up on their cargo fast enough to suit Mrs. Tracy.

"Afternoon, Ma," her son greeted her, kissing the woman's still smooth (ish) right cheek. "Heard anything much from the boys?"

"Gordon called up," she told Jeff, setting his collar straight and brushing a bit at that white-and-blue government uniform. "He 'n Alan are loadin' up refugees out Mars way… and it appears we've acquired a young 'un, thanks ta some fancy paperwork."

Jeff tried out a frown, first, saw that his mother didn't match it, and then risked a cautious smile.

"Kids are a lot of responsibility," he remarked. "I hope Gordon… assuming its him… knows what he's doing." Decided not to mention his own impending re-parenthood. Not before he had to.

Kayo had come up out of the lift, by that point, after spending a bit longer settling Shadow (and searching for Rigby, who'd left the Island for Mars). Having caught the last of Dad's comment, she swung her helmet in a wide, lazy arc and said,

"He'll have plenty of backup and volunteer uncles… plus one super-cool aunt… if he needs it, Dad. Besides, raising kids isn't a pro-type job. Nothing but amateurs, all of us, no matter how many classes WorldGov jams down our throats."

Jeff smiled briefly, running a hand through his brownish-grey hair.

"Managed to dodge most of those," he admitted. "Was always out on a mission. Lucy had to take them all, twice. Might have caught the diaper-change episode, or maybe the one about feeding and burping."

Kayo smiled back. She'd never met Lucinda Tracy. Like Alan, she had no personal memories of 'Mom'… but John had told her all that she'd needed to know.

"I'm sure she found a way to get even," joked Tanusha, punching her father's muscular shoulder.

Jeff winced, remembering. His wife had been quite a woman, and she lived and breathed in his memory, yet.

"That she did, Princess." Then, changing the subject, "Stay here with your Grandma. I'm going to the lab for another wrist comm."

Meant to have a private comm-chat with the absent Captain Rigby, as well, she sensed; the sudden insight making her blush. Very protective man, her father. That the Marine was not in the house… had in fact gone haring off on a rescue with Brains and Uncle Lee… was a sharp disappointment to Kayo. She very much needed a strong, solid bulwark against her own pain and confusion, but… Well, there was always work, the cure for all ills.

"Be careful, down there," she reminded her father. "Brains' equipment has been known to do some pretty weird stuff. Take a Minimax in with you."

The Colonel gave her that confident, cocked-eyebrow Jeff Tracy smile. The one that said: C'mon, now… it's me.

"Breathe easy, Princess," he scoffed. "Everything's under control."

At the time, he really believed what he'd said.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX