Hi, there! =) Thank you for reading, and thanks bunches, Bow Echo, Tikatu, Creative Girl, Akimakel and Whirl Girl, for your feedback and encouragement. Starting to wonder, with the direction things are taking in season 3, whether I ought not to just wipe the board and start over...
20
Early morning, at his latest in a series of drafty, ill-equipped secret labs-
The high-ceilinged, cobwebby room featured plenty of dust, broken windows and silent, hulking machinery. Also, much more than its share of ambition and guile.
Langstrom Fischler (far-sighted, keen-witted, unshackled by the petty concerns of lesser men) stood erect in mid-chamber, fists on his narrow hips. Quite consciously, he struck an heroic pose, for his underlings… What's-his-name and Thingummy… were watching. A man (nay, an icon) such as himself, deserved nothing but the best. Yet, here he was, in an old Siberian glass factory, watching as one after another of his brilliant rescue vehicles was sabotaged by those inept former Thunderbirds.
First his rocket plane, then the space station and submarine had been destroyed by the actions of spiteful, envious, low-wattage minds. Well, no matter! Fischler (genius, leader and savior to all mankind) would emerge victorious. Would burst forth like a glorious phoenix, from the snares set by those who'd always feared and rejected him.
Fischler's unshaven chin lifted a bit, as he worked on his steely-eyed "march to the future" gaze. He'd been given a largish budget by the GDF bean counters, who'd demanded safety features (unnecessary), redundant systems (boring), and trial runs (waste of time). Unbeknownst to them, however, Fischler had skipped all of that, filing false reports in his minions' names, so that nothing at all might be traced back to him.
As for his GDF watchdog… well, a "mistake" with the tickets had sent that tight-lipped, judgmental old woman to Nova Scotia. In a rickety seaplane. One way. No doubt, she'd eventually finagle a ride away from the backwater hick-hole, but by that time, Fischler intended to be somewhere else, with all the money he'd saved on needless luxuries such as insulated wiring and backup computers.
Fully aware of the powerful, inspiring figure he cut in his (somewhat soiled) blue-and-yellow coverall, Fischler adjusted his safety goggles and turned to one of the lackeys.
"You, there! What's-your-name!"
"Hamilton, Sir," she sighed, looking up from her staticky work station.
"Ah, yes, Hamilton. Blonde one, female-ish. Too thin to be interesting. Right! Henderson, I need you to draft a list of all the ways that International Wrecks-cue have damaged my vehicles. Spare no detail!"
Jasmine Hamilton peered through her dark-framed glasses at the crazy man. She was a college student, working on her graduate degree in applied physics, not a spin doctor. Not a liar, either. Certainly not for twelve lousy credits a day.
"Not sure I can do that, Sir," she told Fischler, keeping her tone as even and quiet as possible. "They've done nothing but try to save lives."
"What?!" Fischler exploded, forgetting all about heroic posing and steely eyes. "Nonsense! Rankest, vile rubbish! Those rescue craft were my brain-child! My masterpiece! My glorious, soon-to-be-patented gift to humanity!"
Jasmine caught the weary, dejected eye of her fellow wage-slave, Ivan Zaitsev. Like Jasmine, he'd been worked round the clock for the last twenty-six hours, trying to white-wash Fischler's bombastic incompetence. Like Jazzy, he was sick to death of it. Being a largish, gentle sort, not far from his PhD in comparative systems, Ivan wasn't given to violent outbursts. He did, however, have his limits.
Now, the dark-haired young student nodded at Jasmine. Then he pushed back his squeaking, broken-wheeled chair, and stood up.
"Sir," he announced, "I am done. There is nothing more to be accomplished here, but to wait for arrest, which I am choosing not to do."
Jasmine, too, had arisen, sensing twittering dawn and possible breakfast, ahead. Most of all, sensing freedom from this moron. Taking her purse out from under the splintered desk, Jasmine snapped,
"Good luck with the oversight committee, Mr. Fischler. I'll be out of the office. Goodbye."
Langstrom Fischler (hero, genius, inventor and leader of men) folded both arms across his bold, manly chest.
"Right! Be off with you, then! Who needs a lot of dead-weight button pushers, anyhow? I'll go back to trained monkeys! They complain less, and work cheaper! Once my giant-animal virus, IQ ray and warp portal take off, there will be no stopping Langstrom P. Fischler!"
Almost, he threw back his head for a long, triumphant laugh, but thought better of it. No sense alarming his former servitors into summoning help… and less sense waiting around to be caught.
As What's-her-name and Whosis stalked through the lab's stuck-open door, Fischler barked,
"And you needn't expect to be paid, you lot! Those who lack my penetrating vision and scope, can ruddy well starve on the dole! Not one more credit will they wring from me!"
…because Langstrom Fischler, flush with funds and mad schemes, had bigger plans, yet.
XXXXXXXXXX
Mars, Hebrus Valley, in the Freedom Colony's northern hab tunnel-
Colonel Jeff Tracy vaulted out of his seat, knocking the metal chair backward onto the rocky floor. A deep, shuddering CRUMP had shaken the tunnel, sending a trickle of pebbles and sand clattering down. Then came the pressure wave, blasting through the air, hot and fierce. A shower of ash and small, stinging particles struck Jeff's face, and ruffled his grey hair. Sirens began blasting the 'containment breech' and 'radiation leak' klaxons.
His utility wall map flashed red, showing all blocked and damaged tunnels… which included the colony's generator and atmosphere plant. From force of habit, Jeff's right hand shot to his opposite wrist, where he slapped bare skin, for all IR equipment had been stripped from the Colonel at his banishment. Or, so they'd believed.
Hauling his rucksack onto the bed, Jeff upended the big, canvas bag, spilling its carefully folded contents in a blizzard of uniforms, PT gear and white cotton briefs. A small, oval-framed picture of his wife fell out; beautiful, red-haired Lucy. There was a stud on the black metal frame. Pressed once, it animated the picture, causing Lucy to laugh and blow him a kiss, just as she had on that long-gone, wonderful day. Pressed twice, by his thumb, it transmitted a small, private signal.
Jeff mashed the stud with his big, calloused thumb, once to see Lucy, once to holler like h*ll for assistance. Then, he tucked the picture under his uniform shirt, turned and raced from his quarters, straight into trouble. Just like always.
XXXXXXXXXX
Tracy Island, in the path of a giant, on-coming storm-
Sally Tracy was a kind and loving old woman, but she wasn't a fool. Listening in through the small, beeping robot called "Chips", she'd heard Lieutenant Commander Sheffield's words to his people; warnings he'd spoken as they'd entered the cliff face, from Leeward Head.
As visitors went, he and his folk sounded downright hostile. Well, getting into the warren of tunnels beneath Tracy Island was one thing; escaping those crisscrossing passages, quite something else, when she could seal hatches and lower dozens of fake stone "snoop shields". Back at the underground panic room, Grandma Tracy could turn the island's hidden transport network into a perfectly natural-seeming tangle of lava tubes. She'd done it before, to fool unwanted guests, and lead them away from the Birds.
Being concerned for her visitors, she did supply one of the larger dead-end tunnels with a healthy stack of cookies, boxed meals and water. No sense making the poor fellers feel completely unwelcome. Once the weather cleared, they could call for a transport, and get on outta there. Until then, she'd keep them safe… and safely out of the way.
Sally Tracy could accomplish a lot from that small, shielded room; what with all of them robots at her beck and call. She could hear the boys, monitor GDF transmissions, and keep Sheffield's crew completely flummoxed. And that's exactly what the old lady was doing, when she got that weak, awful signal from Mars.
XXXXXXXXXXXX
Pod 4, out of the ocean, and fairly secure-
The pod had ceased to sway and spin in midair. Now, it was simply rumbling; moving forward with Thunderbird 2. Better. Scott Tracy got his rebellious guts under control before Penny and Kayo opened the access hatch, and slid down its short metal ladder.
He stood up straight, lifted his chin, and even managed a slight, dimpled smile. No easy thing to do, as he was salty, exhausted, and sick. (Stank of the sea, was almost too tired to stand, and would still have been heavering, had he had anything left to hurl but his innards.)
Scott could hear Bertie yapping and whining from outside the hatch, but had most of his attention fastened on Penny. She looked even better in rescue wear, with almost no makeup, and her golden hair styled back in a sleek, gelled ponytail. Moved like a goddess, as always; just slender, tall and lovely enough to beggar description.
Suddenly conscious of his own tattered and soggy condition, Scott gave the females a stiff nod, instead of embracing them. Kay had brought him coffee and sandwiches. Penny, a couple of rough IR towels.
The pilot accepted both drink (black, two sugars) and meal (ham on wheat bread with mustard, because that's all Virgil kept in the fridge). Didn't realize, till he started eating, how ravaged with hunger he'd got. Then, for a few minutes, Scott noticed nothing but food.
Penelope started to say something, as the pilot was halfway through his second sandwich, but Scott cut her off with a lifted hand. Hurriedly, he swallowed his mouthful of bread and ham, gulped strong, dark coffee, and then said,
"Wait. Hang on, Pen. I had some time to think, while I was bouncing around the Pacific… and here's what I came up with. It's pretty obvious you're pissed at me, only I can't fix what I did wrong, or even apologize, if you won't talk to me. Penny, I love you… Nothing's changed about the way I feel, or how important you are. It's just…"
Scott lifted both arms from his sides and then let them drop again, in a gesture of baffled resignation.
"…I'm me. Running missions is what I do, Pen, and sometimes, I get distracted. I'm sorry. Tell me what's wrong, and I'll try to do better."
Lady Penelope had fully intended to remain angry, chilly and distant. But, the sight of those sapphire eyes… hopeful, concerned and loving… undid her completely.
Scott Tracy was a very handsome man. Scott Tracy tired, battered and uncertain, was utterly irresistible. A warm flush rose up to fill her like strong drink. The young noblewoman smiled at her fiancé, then stepped forward into his hard-muscled arms, murmuring,
"Don't be daft, Darling. Of course, you've been a bit preoccupied. Perfectly understandable. Come along, then… there's a good lad… let's get you up to the showers and a warm, dry bunk." In that order, and not necessarily alone. After all, they had a great deal of "making up" to do.
XXXXXXXXXXXX
Leaving Pod 4 a few moments later… solo-
Kayo climbed up the ladder with that now-emptied thermos, calling upon every calming mantra, every breathing exercise she knew. Penny and Scott were already gone, although their scent and impression lingered, even through metal and salt. Just as well they'd left, as she didn't want to discuss Ross Island. Not with Scott, not with Penny or John… not with anyone, really, except maybe Grandma, who could cure most anything.
Pod 4's short steel access ladder opened into the crowded rear crew cabin of Thunderbird 2. A brief climb, right enough, but surprisingly difficult, given her tired and battered condition. Tanusha had survived a crash landing, and the loss of her Bird… had regained her brother's friendship… was yet terribly lonely, awfully confused… had a cold coming on, and that time of the month. A visit from Aunt Flow, at just about the worst point imaginable.
Kayo stalked across the big cabin, which was packed with military and government types. Folk who'd been tapped to watch the New Crew's disastrous first mission. All of them wanted to talk. To pat her back, and say "thank you".
The dark-haired girl forced a smile, chatted with each rescued victim, and kept herself moving. She was no Lady P, but this time, Kay made it through a crowd without offending anyone. (Truthfully, she scored somewhere near John, on the "plays well with others" scale.)
Their gathered minds pushed and surged at her, but the result was a sort of mental white noise, composed of dozens of friendly, relieved, tired thoughts. She did not have to read or block them. Just nod, smile, say "don't mention it, Sir," "My pleasure, Ma'am," or "That's what we're here for," and then leave.
Found Sherbert sitting on his haunches, in the quiet passage beyond. The bug-eyed little brute was quite alone, having been left by his "mum" as she attended to Scott.
"Hullo there, you repulsive snippet," Kayo greeted the disconsolate pug, whose tail gave a single, half-hearted thump in response. "The oldies off having fun, without you?"
Bertie sighed, allowing Kay to scoop him up into her arms.
"Know exactly how you feel, Pudge. Outside the hatch, all alone, always."
The pug gave her face a brief lick, whimpering sympathetically. Kayo smiled, and nuzzled him back, saying,
"Fear not, fat one… "mummy" and "da" will be back, soon; once they've exhausted each other, that is. As for us…" she shrugged. "You're fixed, and I might as well be, for all the action I get."
Couldn't help wishing that she could find someone of her own. Not related, and not already taken. Not opposed to her brothers, either. Someone strong enough to keep up, but kind, friendly and handsome.
Bertie sighed again, and buried his ugly, squashed face against Kayo's neck.
"Well," said the green-eyed girl, starting forward, "At least I've got you, Chubs. Fancy helping me face up to Virgil and Parker? I've got some explaining to do…"
That, of course, was when her wrist comm went off.
XXXXXXXXXXXX
Thunderbird 1, nearing the island of Saipan-
Having heard Cavanaugh's astonishing claim, John Tracy was utterly speechless for a full thirty seconds. Long enough that the reporter began to suspect that he'd fallen asleep, or lost consciousness. Then,
"She promised?" he asked, almost inaudibly.
"You'd better believe it, Pooks," Kat replied smugly. "Part of the deal. I help on the investigative and publicity fronts, and you three… Scott, Gordon and present company… put out. Admittedly, the poor lamb was in sort of a bind, but you don't get anywhere by ignoring your opportunities, and, well… here we are. This thing's got an autopilot, doesn't it? How well do you perform under pressure, Red?"
Yeah. John Tracy, recreational vehicle. Not exactly his favourite job description. The astronaut might have thrown himself right back out of his brother's Bird, and taken his chances with the open sea, but then… like a reprieve from on high… his wrist comm buzzed, from Tracy Island.