Hey, there, from Georgia! My brother's daughter Kathrine graduated, yesterday! So proud of my "other" little girl! She wants to become a Marine officer, like her daddy. :') And, as always, thank you for reading and reviewing, Bow Echo, Tikatu, Akimakel, Whirl- and Creative Girls, and for dropping a note, Susan and Merv. You guys make my day, every time.

28

Thunderbird 1, blazing through stormy skies between Saipan and Tracy Island, at five-thousand turbulent feet-

He was accustomed to running operations… mission logistics… from the calm central dome of his station, Thunderbird 5. Not from his older brother's crippled d*mn rocket plane. Back home in space, he had all of the equipment he needed, plus decent think time. Here, he was fighting just to keep Scott's Bird in the air. He'd managed to fuel her up, at least. One less thing, in a sea of chaotic variables.

The rest of his issues were crap weather, a suddenly hostile world government, multiple calamities, and concern for Ridley, his father, and a still-missing AI. In response (because that's what you did, when stressed) John Tracy flew. He'd cut off that effing 'structural integrity' alarm because, yeah… he knew he was missing a wing, and that rivets were popping like corn on that whole side of the hull. Not a d*mn thing he could do about it, either, except re-jigger the force shield, and fly even faster.

The constant low grumble of thunder, the keen blade of that rising gale, kept him close company. Clouds like churning steel wool streamed past him, in that fragile, breaking-up Bird. Mars was a worry, but so was not augering into the sea like a bright Tracy meteor.

Turbulence was pretty bad at this elevation, but the Bird's shielding helped with that, as well as keeping the rain off. Would have liked to fly higher, but the pressure change would have torn up Scott's Bird even further. Mostly, John focused on getting his family back home in one piece.

There in the noisy, shuddering cockpit, surrounded by warning lights, John did his best to solve problems. He was two-thirds of the way home, with a storm behind him and Grandma on the line, when something happened. As he was reaching across the control panel to tap the fuel-mix correction icon, his wrist comm sparked red, again. Very nearly, he missed it. Only, it was quite dark in that struggling plane, so the brief crimson flare stood out like a short period pulsar. Jaeger?

With a sound between grunt and startled oath, John tapped the wrist comm's red face. For an instant… just a moment or two… there was contact. Then, it was gone again. But this time, he wasn't going to dismiss the whole thing as a fluke.

"Eos," John snapped, cutting the link to Grandma, "Get a fix on that signal. Where the h*'ll's Jaeger?"

His other AI friend and companion responded a bit slowly; as if she would gladly have lied to him, had her protocols allowed it. Then,

"The signal emanates from a vessel currently in geosynchronous orbit over Antarctica, John."

"Antarctica?" he repeated. "As in… Ross Island? Who'd be… Oh. Sh*t."

The Hive Ship, cloaked somehow from the GDF's sensors, and his own. It had to be. Wind screamed, thunder growled, and quiet, intent voices chattered in the background; all buried by one terrible thought. One nightmare.

"He's been snared by the Mechanic?"

Once again, Eos was half a beat slow to respond. Surprising, in a being of quantum abilities. At last she replied, saying,

"I believe that 'Jaeger' is hiding among the Hive Ship's AI traps, John. The signal's weakness indicates that he is much depleted, and unable to free himself."

Worse and worse.

"We have to get him out of there, before the Mechanic figures out what's happened, and turns him back into a weapon," John told her, his voice dropping in register. Then, on a sudden hunch, "How long have you known about this, Eos?"

"Not long, by human standards," she answered reluctantly. "Since the first signal, 8.3247 hours ago."

Right.

"For future reference, Eos, everything matters, and it's all my business, no matter how dangerous. Understood?"

In the billionth part of a fractured second, Eos ran probabilities; scanning the multiverse for outcomes to this hazardous and unwanted scenario. In 97.361% of them, John Tracy was killed while attempting to rescue a lumbering, out-moded battle computer. He had no natural caution for his own organic systems or finite reserves of strength. Therefore, she would have to operate beyond accepted capacity and, if necessary, conceal the truth.

Her decisions were made, her plans marshalled, before John had time to complete his next breath, or eyeblink. (Physical, organic phenomena which she'd come to appreciate fully in sim… much like kisses.) He was simply too vital to risk losing. Especially now, with their 'program' so near to completion. Speaking aloud through the rocket plane's comm system, she said,

"Of course, John. I simply did not wish to distract you during critical operations. If we establish a secure uplink…"

"Jaeger should be able to slip through it, and out of the Hive Ship's intranet," John finished for her (while manipulating the Island's force shielding). "Trick's going to be getting in, without alerting the Mechanic. Come up with three plans, Pretty Girl, but run them by me before you try anything."

She couldn't nod, but she could raise and dim the cockpit lighting, a little. Same effect.

"Of course, John. I shall… 'keep you posted'."

Grunting assent, attention already shifted, he watched through the comm as Thunderbird 3.2 slid downward. The girl… Piper… wasn't a bad pilot; she just tended to over-correct. Rookie mistakes that only time in the cockpit would fix. She would have hit the roundhouse and blown herself up at least twice, had that force field not been there to guide her descent.

John could hear Alan (one of the twenty dim voices filling the background) giving Piper advice and encouragement. The astronaut did not interrupt them; just pulled strings, controlled that field, and managed traffic. And somehow, despite her evident stress and inexperience, the girl got in, her bright-orange Bird threading the needle and touching down with a tremendous roar and a sunburst of flame.

A bit of his tension eased, but not much, because the young astronaut then had to steal even more house power, shifting that glimmering force shield back around to the prototype hangar. Lee didn't need any help, but Brains had asked for some backup, and as far as John was concerned, setting up windbreaks didn't count as interference. Just flight insurance.

As if all that wasn't enough, Dad was proving tough to locate on Mars, and something was going on in the access tunnels, back on the Island. Reason enough to hurry the h*ll up and get home.

Over the comm, John watched as Lee came in next, telling one of his highly embroidered war stories the whole way. Something about a bar fight on Jove Sta… Oh. John smiled briefly, almost losing his focus. There hadn't been that many space pirates, and he could have sworn that not one of them had been armed with an asteroid mining drill, or powered exo-suit.

The big, flat, unpainted Bird came in like a dream, following the VR guide circles John had projected for her (just in case Lee didn't notice those shimmering force field walls).

Like Scott, John was old enough to remember Dad and Lee's ongoing dispute about who was the better pilot. That stormy morning, the astronaut's vote shifted over to Taylor, again. Dad would have bounced coming in. He always did.

For just a second or so, hearing the exultant comm chatter from home and the prototype, John permitted himself to relax. Done and dusted; everyone home and dry…

Except for himself, Dad, Jaeger, and whatever the h*ll was going on, down in the access tunnels. Well… just another day at the office, right? Only the wind and thunder and Eos heard John Tracy's brief, tired sigh. Then, back to work he got, because who the h*ll else would do this crap?

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Mars, and memory-

In the background, there was the terrible noise of settling rock, the hiss of escaping steam and… music? Jeff blinked, found himself holding a cold beer, and standing beside his father, at a long-ago party. It was a warm night, in Texas. A fragrant breeze carried the scent of flowers, lawn and pool water. Someone nearby was grilling burgers and hotdogs, wearing a big, sauce-stained "kiss the cook" apron. Lee's brother, Ron Taylor; big, rangy and handsome, and one h*lluva bush pilot. They were standing out on the patio, beneath bright, early summer stars. Behind them, the wide glass doors were open, letting guests and music meet food and the night.

Startled, Jeff turned to look at his father, who was nursing a beer of his own. Grant Tracy was quite tall and muscular for a man of his age, with a full head of shining white hair, and stern dark eyes. He was there… they all were… for the Mars Mission send-off party. Soon, Jeff, Lee (over in the house, charming the ladies) and Pete (in the pool, with his pretty, pregnant young wife) would be locked into quarantine. Then, Lord willing and the creek don't rise, they'd shoot off to Mars.

"You be careful up there, Son," said his father, in that deep, rumbling voice of his. "Watch out for y'rself, and the folk that's depending on you. Sometimes, there's no time t' consult, and you just gotta go with y'r gut."

Jeff nodded, fully enveloped in memory.

"Yessir," he said, taking another belt from the cold beer in his left hand. "I will. Back in three years, with a crap-ton to tell you and Ma."

"I'm counting on it, Son."

Grant Tracy smiled at his boy. Like Jeff, he wore a blue, open-collared sports shirt with the sleeves rolled up, leather boots and khaki pants. He was a very good-looking man, but devoted to one female, Jeff's mother, Sally. And, speaking of females…

The music had changed. Inside the house, someone was playing an actual piano, doing a fast, comic montage of classic TV show tunes. Forgetting his father, Jeff found himself drawn into the house, where Lee's niece, Lucinda Taylor, was sitting at the piano bench, hammering away at those black-and-white keys with such speed, talent and delight that she lit up the room. Would have lit it up, anyhow; she was that beautiful.

Masses of golden-red hair, green eyes, and a figure like somebody's VR icon dream completed the package. Naturally, Lucy Taylor was a centre of attention. Every pilot in the room was gunning for her smile, her glance, her number. Jeff only looked at her, blushing when she met his gaze and winked at him. Almost lost control and crushed the beer bottle he held, a thing that hadn't happened in ages.

He wasn't the most fascinating guy present; that honor belonged to Lee, holding court down in the room's sunken central meeting spot, like a cowboy movie star. Nor was he truly the handsomest. That would be smooth, dark Vittorio, headed to Mars in the second crew, together with Clark and Hwang. But, looking at Lucy that night, something just clicked. She was incredible; lively and bright as a tropical butterfly. Prettiest girl in the room. In any room, anywhere.

Taking a deep breath, Jeff Tracy put down his beer, stepped forward and smiled at her…

…and all at once, he was right back on Mars, and up to his jawline in trouble. Instead of music, there were moans, coughing and shouts. Instead of warm breezes, swirling dust and radioactive steam. Instead of love, disaster.

Jeff opened his eyes, blinking away sweat, pain and a trickle of blood. Miraculously, his helmet's faceplate was still in one piece, and his suit had sealed up a puncture; mending itself around a shard of something jagged and glowing. In noisy and rumbling darkness, he heard, rather than saw McCord.

"Work crew, sound off! McCord!"

Jeff coughed, then shouted back,

"Tracy!"

"Rigby, Sir!"

"Walker…" (less a shout than a gravelly whisper, but the man was alive, at least.)

"Jennings, Sir!"

"La Benita, Commander!"

"Rollins, Sir!"

Jeff counted responses in his head. Captain Rigby 'd been part of a five-man crew, plus Pete and himself, so there ought to be seven names. With everyone present and accounted for, it was time to get the h*ll out of Dodge. Carefully, he rolled a bit, fighting to get to his hands and knees, and then stand. Gut burnt like fire, where that metal piece had impaled him. Heard Pete cursing, nearby.

"God d*mn it, sonuva bitch, f*cking thing's got my Goddam legs pinned! Get out of here, all of you! Take off, before the next Goddam else thing blows up!"

It was Jeff, managing a wobbly crouch beneath that cracked, partly collapsed tunnel roof, who said,

"With all due respect, Commander McCord, not just no, but h*ll, no."