Sorry for the hasty, and no doubt error-packed, post. Getting things done on the fly, but so much wanting to write! As always, Bow Echo, Tikatu, Creative Girl and Whirl Girl, you are a source of inspiration and fun (especially the puns, am a sucker for word-play). Celebrating my kids' birthdays this weekend, so feeling sort of rushed. Hugs!
17
The North Pacific, amid giant waves and a violent storm-
The helmet kept him from drowning, but only just. Having fallen like a stone from Thunderbird 1, Scott was rolled, dropped and lifted by surging water; alternately mountain-peak high and crashing low. A hard, fast current had taken him almost immediately. Wind and waves did the rest, sweeping him off along with a tumbling raft of flotsam. Thanks to that roaring wind, there was almost as much water in the air as in the ocean, screwing his helmet's receivers and systems to sh*t. His heads-up display vanished, and comm crackled, then silenced completely.
Scott was thudded and spun like clothes in a washer. Immediately disoriented by motion and darkness, he launched flares in every direction. Then, the pilot collided with something big and metallic. He had just enough sense left to grab for it, and hang on tight.
Lightning unzipped the skies as Scott hauled himself, panting, upward. The metal was textured and ridged, as though meant to be climbed. Trouble was, its surface shifted with the water, making it very hard to keep hold of. His torso and arms clung to the object; with dark water sometimes roaring and bubbling around him, sometimes hissing in angry retreat. His legs trailed behind like a couple of sea-anchors, nearly tearing him loose.
Gasping, Scott hung onto some sort of rubbery ledge, about three fingers high. Meanwhile, the big wallowing thing slalomed down a huge wave, riding as high in the sea as a beach ball. Moments later, an especially bright flash turned savage night to blue-white neon. Straining upward, Scott craned for a look at his ride, seeing a giant, dripping maw and green shell. Looked like a massive, lumbering sea turtle, or…
"Pod 4," Scott gasped, weak with sudden, near-hysteric relief. Knew where he was, now, and how to reach safety. Discarded after Thunderbird 4's launch, the big, empty pod had been seized by the same current, but hadn't moved as quickly as Scott.
Knowing all this, the pilot didn't need lights to find shelter or call for help. Thunderbird 4's guide rails were just a few yards away to the right. Easy distance, he assured himself. Just like taking a walk on the beach… in a hurricane.
Grunting hoarsely, Scott inched his way along the tilted and flooded launch ramp; clinging tight when the waters swept over him, making progress when they surged back out of the pod. Those gecko gloves saved his life a dozen times, that awful night. Without them, not even Scott's formidable strength would have kept him attached to the wet, bucking ramp. Deeply thankful, he intended to kiss their engineer, next time he saw him.
Inch by inch, the pilot fought his way upward, till at last his boot soles made contact, too; automatically locking on. Then, he could scuttle crab-wise, up the ramp and into that booming and thundering pod. It was dark inside, except for pale, greenish glow strips, battery lanterns, and brief, star-bright flashes of lightning. Knee deep in sea water, too, but still afloat, thank God.
Giant struts curved away overhead, like the ribs of a great metal beast. Looked and smelt like the inside of a well-equipped sea-monster; one designed by Brains and Dad, together. Emergency beacon was on the starboard bulkhead, he recalled, right by the med-kit and life raft. Good enough.
Scott sloshed to his feet, bracing against the pod's dizzying spin and wild pitch. Panting, he retracted his helmet's face plate, leaned over, hands on his knees, and was violently sick. (Not that you would have noticed, over the constant swish, gurgle and thrum of rolling dark seawater.) How, he wondered, did Gordon stand this?
The downed pilot shook his head. Straightening, he got himself cleaned up, then went for the beacon, thinking as he did so: No more water. Nothing deeper than a shot glass from now on, swear to God!
Imagine the world's worst, dankest, noisiest, ocean-smellingest theme park ride. It was like that, times a hundred, mixed with the stress of busted house-arrest and possible criminal charges, plus concern for Penny, his brothers and sister. Reason enough to get off his ass and get back in control of the rescue.
Determined now, Scott made it to the bulkhead after a brief, flailing walk through surging and draining water. There, he pressed a flat, red button marked: help.
"Hey," he gasped, then started wheezing and hacking too hard to continue.
"D*mned if that don't sound like Spencer," drawled Lee's flat, relaxed voice. "Where you at, Son?"
Despite the coughing fit, Scott grinned.
"Down here in Pod 4, Sir… enjoying a private cruise."
Virgil cut in next, saying,
"Well, I hate to interrupt a relaxing sea voyage, Scotty, but if you're ready for pick up, I'll come reel you in."
"I can get there faster," said John. All of their voices were amplified, echoing over booming metal and rumbling water. Like arguing with Titans. But, Scott shook his head.
"Like h*ll," he told John. "I want you up top in Thunderbird 1. We've got a civilian in there, alone. A reporter, I think. Watch yourself, Buddy; it's a Santa Fe scenario.
The comm fell silent, a moment. Then John said,
"Oh," and "Sh*t. Okay, I'll be careful."
Five years earlier, during Gordon's second mission with Virgil, they'd run into trouble. What had seemed like a regular desert rescue had turned into a sudden trap, set by a group of love-and-fame crazed fan girls. They hadn't wanted just selfies, either.
"Yeah," Scott told him. "If it weren't for the weather and fuel situation, I'd have you stay outside and remote fly, but I don't want our "affectionate guest" in there alone, taking pictures and sending reports. Hard to be sure, but she sounded a lot like Cavanaugh."
"From back when the Mechanic attacked us, at the Ranch?" Virgil cut in, sounding concerned. "Could they be working together?"
"Don't seem too likely, Vic," Taylor mused. "I ain't noticed that bastitch ever employin' no reg'lar person, at all."
Except maybe Brains, no one suggested aloud. To cover an awkward, embarrassing silence, Scott began barking commands.
"Virge, I need you down here for pod-retrieval, if you can do it without risking Thunderbird 2. If not, I'll stay put and wait for the weather to clear. You, Alan and Uncle Lee will head back to the Island, conditions permitting. If it's too rough, over there, snag Grandma and head for Site B. John, you'll fly to the nearest safe, public location, and drop off your passenger, then join up. We clear?"
"Yeah," John replied. "I'm on it."
"What about the kids, Scott?" asked Virgil. "Not sure how much 'go' they've got left in those crappy 'point-twos'."
Frustrated, Scott Tracy closed his gem-blue eyes, massaged his aching forehead, and sighed. Then,
"Fine. They can come with, but not the reporter. She goes straight back to civilization, ASA-quick. Understood?"
They understood, all right, and were swift to obey. Maybe, just possibly, the worst was over, Scott told himself.
XXXXXXXXXXXXX
London, former U.K. as misty late evening was shading into dark and siren-torn night-
In all of the chaos of hovering news drones, rushing security crews, evacuated personnel and shouting emergency teams, no one took notice of one tall, dark-clad young man. Mostly because he did not choose to let them. At his merest suggestion, eyes and thoughts turned elsewhere, and he passed like smoke through the gawking crowd.
A few camera drones might have spotted him, as complex machines were not subject to his will. He was no Kane. But he did nothing visibly interesting. Nothing at all to draw the lens, besides move in a small bubble of un-jostled space, ever untouched by the shouting mob.
He had more than one goal, here. Family politics aside, a threat of this caliber had to be squashed directly, with extreme prejudice. Also, the Kyranos had to be seen back in action, by those who mattered. Doubtless, there were a few Beeches, Hiros or De La Vegas, amid the surging Typicals. Maybe a Kane or two, if they'd found a way to disguise their nature… But Nikorr got there, first. He had to.
There was no trial or tribunal. No conversation, even. Just, as things kept going wrong for the Typicals, providing cover, Kyrano stalked forward, until he came into view of his target, General Steele.
Nikorr didn't just look with his eyes. Instead, he expanded his senses to take in the minds of the three men before him, who supposed that their squeaking confrontation had meaning. Just so, might a trio of mice square off in their cage, until somebody flicked on a light.
Steele's mind stood out from the others, bearing as it did the definite stamp of another Kyrano, the "Hood". Steele's thoughts had been altered, his abilities augmented, making him quite dangerous… for a Typical. The other two were beneath his notice, being valuable only to their own worthless kind. He did not even bother to learn their names, or intent.
Rather, Nikorr Kyrano, healed by the Kane (after one of her people had nearly destroyed him), acted with the deadly precision of a poisoned needle. He did not seek vengeance or spectacle. Just reached into the general's brain, and crushed it. That the man had triggered something already was an unfortunate consequence of his need for stealth. What the Typicals lacked in power, they made up for in numbers and tech. No sense calling unwanted attention.
He watched as the tall, grey-haired man first stiffened, then pitched forward at the two others. Their tense, eager bodyguards instantly rushed Steele, thinking that the now mindless man had attacked. News drones swarmed the scene like buzzing, clicking hornets, clanging and ringing against one another as they jostled after the best shot. Typicals shouted and strove, some brandishing weapons, but Nikorr was done. He'd accomplished what he'd come to do. Mostly.
There were two further minds of interest, nearby. A pair of females, known to each other, who'd had dealings with the Tracy family. Both were mere Typicals, and in some sort of trouble with their own wretched sort.
Nikorr drummed the fingers of one hand against his left pants leg. As well snip flies from a web… yet the Tracys had been useful, when he and his people had been attacked by a rogue Kane. Nevertheless, he despised the Tracys, whose badly mixed blood had all but eliminated their status.
Nikorr Kyrano might have done anything at that point, except that some small, noisy part of himself said: Let 'em go. Fix it so no one remembers they ever got busted, and let 'em go free.
Green eyes narrowing, the Kyrano started to turn away. Not his business, after all. Then, (not because of that weak-ass suggestion) he telekinetically unlocked the females' cuffs, and made a few adjustments to their thoughts, and everyone else's. Shrugging, debt paid in full, he then walked off through that confused, avid crowd; untouched and unseen. Part of the mist and the night.
XXXXXXXXXXXXX
Mars, somewhat earlier-
Jeff Tracy had made up his mind. Two days, he'd decided. Two days to allow Pete McCord to plausibly "forget" his earlier comments about stealing a transport. Then, he'd be gone. Out, like yesterday's trash.
The Colonel had been placed on Earth-normal rotation, meaning that he was up and doing with the weak, pale Martian sun, and back in his quarters at twilight. Just as well, as he'd never much liked pulling night shifts. He was growing accustomed to one-quarter gravity, and would start his first day on the job with tomorrow's dawn.
Pete had placed him in charge of mining operations, to help provide the small, vital colony with ore, water and power. An interesting technical challenge and vote of confidence, but Jeff's mind and heart were back home with Ma, the boys and his little Princess. He had to get back to them, soon.
To keep his mind off the problems on Earth, to keep from just bolting right the h*ll now, Jeff puttered about his new quarters, setting things up. He'd been given two whole rooms and a head to himself. Smallish and tubular, drilled from the dank, greyish rock, they were almost comfortable. No windows, of course. Too far down, and a potential safety hazard, anyhow. There was a flat-screen 'viewer', though; set to project calm, pleasant landscapes from Earth. If he pressed the 'window open' tab, the viewer's mechanism would waft an appropriately scented breeze at him, almost blotting out the sour, dank reek of a Martian hab-tunnel.
The furniture was another matter, spartan and plain. His narrow rack was in mid-room, away from those moistly glistening walls. He'd tossed Ma's hand-crocheted coverlet on top, and placed a few family pictures and holo-vids on the single, squat dresser. His green canvas rucksack was still mostly unpacked, though, sitting close to his squared-away rack.
Sighing, Jeff sat down on the room's lone chair, a folding metal object painted in drab, battleship grey. (After their first few attempts, no one on Mars bothered with painting their walls. The stuff would blister and flake, where it didn't just ooze away to the floor.)
Everything was familiar; the stink, the gravity, the claustrophobically-tight quarters, that constant humming of pumps and machinery… and yet, Jeff was homesick, and worried about his family. For six years, he'd been torn from their lives, sleeping in stasis while they struggled and fought to keep his vision alive. Now, he'd been ripped away again, and God alone knew what would happen, next. He had to get back!
Two days, he assured himself. Two days was the plan. Then, he'd pull rank on some poor, frightened recruit, commandeer Pete's personal spacecraft, and get his happy ass back to Earth. That was his plan… until the first explosion, anyhow.