Hi, folks! A short one, this time, because, it just seemed to end where it did. Thanks Bow Echo, Tikatu, Sueemm, Whirl Girl, Corbyinoz2 and Creative Girl 29. Your opinions and comments mean the world! =) Original poem by Will S.

Edited!

13

Thunderbird 4, rising through hundreds of feet of turbulent water-

Gordon Tracy had pressed those red buttons, then slapped a quick force-field around his own Bird, and the new guy's. (Which was why the small orange sub wasn't completely torn apart by that sudden, sharp pressure change.) The emergency float ballooned explosively under Thunderbird 4.2 and the sunken plane. From the size of a briefcase, it swelled in seconds to massive, gas-filled proportions, sending both derelict craft rocketing to the surface in a thunderous roar of displaced water. As rides went, it could best be described as falling up, during a violent hurricane.

The fake Birds were not in good shape, and shed crucial bits on their way, inside of that life-saving force shield. Gordon could hear the noise of stressed, squealing metal, but kept his eyes glued forward, on the down-rushing surface. He felt like that myth-guy. The one with the harp, traveling through the underworld, who couldn't look back, or he'd lose his dead girlfriend. Just chewed gum, crossed his fingers and shot hard for the surface.

He knew and loved the ocean in all of her moods, but this wasn't one of the best. Broke free of the water and out into wild, howling night. Giant waves towered and dropped all around them. Cyclonic winds shoved and spun their shielded Birds. The flares should have summoned immediate help, but their rockets and smoke were instantly torn away by the storm, blown flat, and then into an onrushing wave-front.

Gordon hit his beacon and began pinging for help. Pod 4 was around, somewhere, but actually too dangerous to approach, in weather as dirty as this. Would be like trying to leap cars on a moving rollercoaster; much more likely to collide, or be smashed by the mountainous hulk, than scoot safely aboard it. In water this rough, the big pod might already be flooded and sinking, anyhow. Time for plan B.

Looking around at the lightning-shot night, Gordon spared a moment to hit his comm and say,

"We're up. Hang tight, back there. I'm calling for assistance."

There were times when he really liked his job, and there were times when it scared the sh*t out of him. This was one of those, because, force-shield or no, the weather had got really rough, really fast, and they were in trouble. He heard Caleb say,

"Do what you have to, Gordon. Me 'n Jan are fine. No worries."

Uh-huh. Sure. But he didn't have time to argue, or roll his eyes, even. Just pinged like a little lost child on a city sidewalk, and sent up more flares. Hard to see straight, because they were spinning; climbing up the high face of each wave, to plunge like a rock down its black, spuming back. He'd have been safer, down below, but could not just leave those kids to their fate, up here alone.

At the crest of each wave, Gordon searched for lights. In the canyon-like troughs between, where the wind died, and all was dark, rushing madness, he signaled his brothers. Comm was spotty as h*ll, for some reason, but he made contact a few times.

Then the brilliant spear of a floodlight came slicing toward them. Not Thunderbird 2. Wrong color, being more golden than white. The counterfeit, probably. That beam reached them, swept onward, then cut back around and locked on. All at once, they were transfixed by a giant shaft of spray-and-rain-flecked light. Help had arrived, at last.

Virgil would have said something funny. This guy (James? George? Something like that) cut right to the chase, blurting,

"Gotcha! You all okay in there?" And then, before they could answer, "Brace for pick-up, guys!"

Wait. Brace how? Pick up with what? Didn't have time to ask, because, as they were tottering on the crest of a giant rogue wave, their rescuer fired… no lie… some sort of weighted and rocket-launched cargo net. It flashed down and around them all, programmed to envelope, then lock.

Cursing like a sailor in the brig with no memory and a crushing hangover, Gordon was jerked upward along with the others, lifted spinning and swinging into the shredding gale. Could hear Caleb retching over the comm, and maybe threw up a little, himself (but d*mned if he'd ever admit it).

Swaying wildly in and out of that golden floodlight beam, he and the new kids were hauled slowly upward. Not smoothly, either. The winch mechanism jammed repeatedly. Which… yeah, was awesome. Straight aces. Gordon only stopped himself from yelling at the young pilot (who kept apologizing) by imagining what he'd do to Langstrom Fischler, next time they met. Bastard had no business designing paper airplanes, much less a rescue Bird.

Someone… Scott… was trying to talk to him.

"Gordon," his brother demanded, "What's your status? What's going on down there? Any sign of Kayo?"

"Dude. Later. Trying…" (To not be sick, and survive his own d*mn rescue, actually.) "… to help get these kids aboard Thunderbird 2-Point-Crap. Heading back down again, as soon as I've stabilized their commander!"

Meanwhile, the big, flat blue belly of that ersatz rescue Bird grew jerkily, swirling-y closer, while lightning stitched the sky.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Below the surface, in a slow-rising pilot escape pod-

She'd lost consciousness for a few minutes, after a mighty flash and concussive roar. Awakened to hear flexing metal, rushing water, and Kat Cavanaugh (alternately cursing and narrating their plight into her pocket recorder).

"…Plunging into the depths, after heroically intercepting a massive chunk of debris with our own frail, tiny craft… Sh*t, too maudlin… back up five seconds, and erase…"

Kayo's mouth tasted of blood. She'd bitten through her tongue, or something. Alive, though. That was a plus, as her brother would say. The entire cockpit was sealed and detachable. Hackenbacker had designed the system to protect pilot and passenger from pretty near anything, and their engineer did good work. No beacon pings, though… that was odd.

They were underwater, clearly, drifting gradually upward through debris-pocked darkness, a few pale glow-strips all that they had by way of light. The girl started to reach for her wrist comm, then paused, finger over the button. Did her brothers even know that she was here? Would they care, if they did know? Well… she had a passenger… they'd want to save Cavanaugh, surely.

Tanusha took a deep breath, causing a stab of pain from the bruised flesh and bones beneath her tight seat straps. Coughed a few times, to cover her own anguished gasps.

"You're awake, now?" Kat demanded, from the seat behind. "About d*mn time! I thought I was going to have to get us out of this mess, on my own. Now, whistle up the cavalry, Ducks, and let's get out of the soup."

The reporter was so irritating, that Kayo would cheerfully have ejected her, had that feature still operated in this mode. Instead, the girl snapped,

"Yes, I'm awake. At my best in a crisis, too, so long as nobody bothers me."

Kat, who always had to get the last word in, said,

"Understood, Ducky. Silence is golden, and all that. I'll just sit back and enjoy the scenery. Let me know when you've come up with a plan that doesn't involve using us a human Goddam shield."

A hot reply scorched its way to her mouth, and Kay almost lashed out at her smart-alec passenger. Only, she felt something odd, then. Someone was thinking about her, very intensely. Not a psion, but someone who knew that she was, and wanted Tanusha to hear him. John.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

In midair, overhead-

Having dropped the New Crew's excuse for John off at their rickety blue cargo-lifter, Scott should have gone back to Thunderbird 1. The rocket-plane was low on fuel, and needed her pilot. Needed to land somewhere.

Or else, he could have gone down to see Penny, and demanded,

"What the h*ll?! What's wrong with you?!"

But, he was rushed, and maybe a little scared. What if he'd screwed things up, somehow, and the engagement was off? Pen was so important, such a huge part of his life, that Scott wasn't sure how he'd handle being dumped. Ought to have cowboy-ed up and talked things over, but, instead, took refuge in work.

They still hadn't found Kayo, who was apparently out there, somewhere. John would need help finding her. His brother was smart, give him that, but often made risky, jump-in-head-first decisions. Obviously, Scott needed to be there. Wasn't hard to find him, either, as that exopod had wing lights, and its ionic thrusters produced a bright, bluish glow. Closer to, there was all of that flaring and branching circuitry, as the suit made its adjustments.

Scott gunned his jet pack, battling a savage crosswind, rumbling thunder and cold, lashing rain, to reach his brother's position. Not running away. Running to help.

Virgil and Gordon thought in music. John and Alan, in numbers, movies and videogame references. Scott tended to think in free verse, at times like these. As sky-sweeping flares of lightning turned night into strobe-lit day, Scott was overwhelmed by a rush of thought.

A hole is open in the heart of the world

am I standing on its edge?

Am I looking down?

There on his shoulders…

are those dreams his own,

or everyone else's?

Come fall into line,

ordered and fine

a beast burdened,

a man yoked by expectations.

Am I standing on the edge?

Am I looking down?

A silver hawk poised in a dive,

not to crash or to fall.

Am I standing on the edge?

Am I looking down?

A weary head wears its father's harsh crown.

In an instant it was memorized, then thrust aside, like all the others. Scott Tracy didn't write for publication. He wrote for himself, when the tension and anxiety became too much to choke down, any longer.

Roaring flat-out toward the small, blinking lights that were John (and the h*ll with his fuel supply… top it up, later) Scott saw those green-blue spots drop suddenly, diving hard to seaward.