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34
In transit, fleeing through London's crowded and dirty New Town-
There was a problem inherent in using this weak, sub-par body; the fact that he was already burning it out. A month, at most, the Hood reckoned. In that time, he had to summon henchmen, and find enough of his former body to clone and re-grow, all whilst avoiding International Rescue and the Mechanic. The GDF he spat upon as beneath his notice, if occasionally useful.
What he needed was money, transportation and a plan. What he had was hatred, power, and a mind like no other. Step one, then: Recruit a pair of high-profile thugs. The sort that would spread enough chaos to cover his tracks. Fortunately, the Hood knew just where to begin his search.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Mars, below ground-
It could have been worse, Jeff figured. Pete's right leg was definitely fractured; he could tell from the survival suit's badly dented and twisted armour, as well as the bio-stat panel at mid-chest. The things were built tough; designed not to fail, even when shoved down a Martian cliff. To reseal themselves, even if punctured or torn. The humans inside were a good deal more fragile, though.
Somebody… Rollins… had thrown together a make-shift crutch, so that the base commander could keep up with the rest, once they reached a less-damaged section of reactor access tunnel. As for himself… Jeff resolutely refused to look at his own status panel, puncture or no. Couldn't pull the thing out, anyway. Not without venting most of his innards, and air.
Instead, he stayed close to his friend, while trying not to hover. 'Mother-henning' Pete McCord just didn't work. Never had. Together, the seven-man crew scraped its way past twisted steel blast doors and partial cave-ins, taking breaks whenever Jeff, or Rigby or La Benita needed to rest. (Never Pete; he was just fine, thanks. Fresh as a daisy.)
Their suits had enough recycled water, basic nutrients and air to last for a week. Trick would be getting help before they ran out, and died of asphyxiation, or thirst. But, hey… one step, one yard, one victory at a time. At least they were fighting their way clear of the radiation, climbing slowly upward through darkness and cold.
At one point, a massive rockfall had just about blocked their path into the colony's hub, creating a mountain of rubble with about a two-foot clearance, on top. In the shifting light of their helmet beams, the jagged stone wall looked close to impassable.
"You know…" mused Pete, leaning awkwardly on his rickety crutch. "A guy could start to feel persecuted."
Jeff reached across to give his friend's shoulder a pat.
"Statistically speaking, Mars is still safer than hang-gliding, or deep-sea adventure tours," he offered, starting to smile. "Less chance of contracting infectious disease, here, too."
McCord shot him a sidelong look, half exasperated, half amused.
"Thanks, Tracy. I'll keep that in mind."
"Just trying to help."
Like the old days, almost; only with murder and sabotage spiking their path. He and McCord turned their attention back upward, where Rigby and Jennings were searching for a way over the cave-in. Wasn't looking too good, so far. After a few minutes, the injured base commander cleared his throat.
"You could leave me back here with Walker, and go for help," he suggested, not looking at Jeff.
"Believe I made my feelings pretty clear, the last time you threw out that dumbass recommendation, Commander," said Colonel Tracy, also staring directly ahead.
Didn't seem like there was much more to say, so they dropped the argument, listening over their helmet comms as Rigby and Jennings squirmed and cursed their way between boulders and rock slabs. Finally, they heard,
"Skipper… Colonel… there's a way. Kind of tight, in places, but if I can get through…"
"Calling me scrawny, Captain?" Pete inquired, in dangerously level tones.
"Not at all, Sir," the Marine corrected, after consulting his mental 'Oh, sh*t' guidebook. "You're compact, and should be able to get through, using two arms and a good leg to push with. Other side's pretty steep, Sir, but Jennings 'll be there to help, um… help Walker… get down."
La Benita and Rollins had been helping Walker along, almost carrying the wounded engineer, in places.
"Him, first," ordered McCord. "You men get him through as best you can. Me and Tracy will follow."
"Yessir," they responded, then set to work, putting off the moment when Pete and Jeff would have to climb that unstable rubble wall, themselves. They were less than a quarter of the way to the surface, by that point, with nuclear fire behind, and frozen near-vacuum before.
Eh, Jeff shrugged. Call it a level-3 challenge.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Tracy Island, at nearly the same time-
He'd been dreaming of something warm, peaceful and joyous; with music like pattering raindrops scattered throughout. Both his hands moved in his sleep, as though playing chords with one, and melody with the other. Something new.
Virgil woke up, then, with that music still in his head and somebody cuddled up close. Hummed for a moment or two, just to be sure he remembered it. Only then, after seeing and hearing the whole composition, did the pilot open his eyes.
Found himself lying on the upstairs hall floor, with people to both sides of him. For some reason, he was wrapped in a red-and-white tablecloth, and… and… Oh. Crap.
Very carefully, moving like the shadow cast by a ghost in some cold, starless boneyard, Virgil disentangled himself from his stout sleep-mate. Sort of warm to be snuggling, anyhow. Crowded and public, too.
For such a large young man, Virgil Tracy could be very graceful and delicate. Came of having to cling like h*ll with one hand, while repairing an engine in flight, with the other. Now, he stood up, looking around the hall to see if anyone else was awake. But, no… plenty of tossing and muttering bodies, occasional gusty snores, and that was all. Quite possibly, no one had seen his, um… moment of gentle affection.
Relaxing a bit, Virgil carefully placed his tablecloth blanket in reach of the ferocious-looking non-com he'd slept with, last night. In case, you know, she woke up and wanted some privacy. Then he edged away to the bathroom, still hearing that song in his head, and feeling d*mn lucky.
Shortly thereafter, the storm broke up. It was glorious, being able to open the shutters and venture outside, even though the mess left behind was staggering. Uprooted trees, patio furniture and storm-wrack were everywhere. There was some structural damage, too, and the pool was choked with debris. There'd be no launching Thunderbird 1 for awhile, but Scott was alert and energized, anyhow.
"Virge," he ordered, "get a landing strip cleared for the GDF. I've got John recalling that virus of his, so they'll be here soon, to pick up their people."
"Including the kids?" Virgil asked, getting into his exo-suit, out there on the pool deck. "I mean, we've got room, if the New Crew would like some real training, in actual Birds."
Scott shrugged.
"Not up to us, Virge. They work for the GDF, remember? They'll do what WorldGov wants them to."
Virgil scowled.
"Well, we can at least fix up their Birds," he offered, clanking off to the airstrip. Max was out there, too, directing the flow of repair-mech traffic, and helping to clear hangar doors. Virgil high-fived him, as he went past. Didn't have time to talk, though. Too busy.
Everything dripped and fluttered in wet vegetation and strong, gusting wind. The sun played tag with dark, shredded clouds, but compared to the storm, it was Heaven. Everyone turned out to help with the clean-up. Even those two leftover occupation-squad grunts pitched in, if only to get away, sooner. There was certainly plenty of work.
He'd been tossing debris for about an hour, when Virgil received the best news he'd gotten all day. As he and Josh Kelly were shifting trees off the main airstrip, his wrist comm pinged. Emma.
Almost didn't hear it over the noise of his own whirring, clanking power suit, (which was glittering red again, for some reason). But, hear it he did. Smiling all over his handsome face, the big pilot waved at Josh to take a break, then stepped out of his exo-suit and picked up the call.
Looked like crap, probably… sweaty and speckled with mud, no hair gel… but didn't care one d*mn little bit, because, Emma. Tapping the comm screen, he said,
"Hey, Sweetheart. You gonna make my day, and tell me you're coming to help?"
Her holographic image, projected over his comm screen, cocked a slim blondish eyebrow.
"You think I've got nothing better to do, in all the universe, than come running to you?" she teased, from what looked like the cockpit of a midrange GDF transport.
"On your way, aren't you?" he boasted, wishing that he could reach through that screen and draw her right to him, now.
Emma laughed, and then stopped playing games.
"Better yet, we both are," she told him, jerking a thumb at the pilot beside her. Captain O'Bannon gave him a very brief smile, before turning her attention back to the flight controls. But Virgil had eyes for no one but Kraft, who said, "We got a little unscheduled leave time, and figured we'd come give you a hand. Union Jack's been diverted your way, too."
Maybe it was impossible for that day to get any more perfect, but it sure as h*ll tried.
"ETA?" he asked.
"Me, or Jack?" his someday-wife teased.
"The aircraft," he dead-panned. "I like the lines on that one."
"Jackass. We've just departed Brisbane. Make our ETA around twenty-five minutes. Maybe forty, with By-the-book O'Bannon at the helm."
Still keeping a straight face, Virgil remarked,
"John's here. Hasn't fixed up a new space elevator, or anything."
A muscle twitched in the solemn captain's smooth, blushing cheek, but she refused to be teased. Did pick up the pace though. A little.
"Let me fly," Kraft snapped at her, semi-seriously.
"You don't know how," objected Ridley.
"I'll figure it out. Anything's better than watching you stick your hand out the window to make turn signals!"
That got O'Bannon's attention.
"I am not mak…"
"Hah! Gotcha! Now, pour it on, Ridley Do-Right. I've got an island to catch, before plate tectonics sweeps it away. Now. While we're young."
Virgil chuckled. God, he loved that woman!
"Just get here safe, Emma. You, too, Captain. I'll, uh… let John know to expect a visitor. Change his shirt, or something."
The barest hint of a smile touched Captain O'Bannon's face, at that. Mentally, Virgil high-fived himself (and sent a swift code to his brother. 311: incoming.)
Said Kraft, with a mock-severe scowl,
"Wouldn't do you any harm either, Mister. You're squared away like a soup sandwich."
"This an inspection tour?" teased the muscular pilot, beginning to grin. "Because, if so, I'll tie a big, red bow around it, and…"
"Oh, my God!" Emma blurted. Hurriedly, she cut off the comm, while O'Bannon hooted with laughter, in the background.
Josh Kelly had been keeping busy, shifting junk and pretending not to listen. Now, he gave Virgil a hesitant smile, and stepped nearer. Like the middle Tracy, he wore cammo work pants, and a damp IR tee shirt.
"That must be awesome, Sir," said the dark-skinned young man, mopping at his own bald, sweaty head with a pushed-up sleeve. "Being in love like that, I mean. Haven't met anyone special myself, though."
He sounded a little depressed, so Virgil said,
"I dunno, Josh. It just sort of happens. Could be someone you've already met, and think you're just friends with. Then, BAM, you look up one day, and there she is: everything you never knew you always wanted."
His New Crew counterpart smiled at him.
"Can't see that happening with Jan or Piper, Sir. Maybe I need to get out more?"
Before Virgil could answer, John dropped out of the sky, folding his exopod wings as he touched down beside them; first at a slight crouch, then upright and tall.
"What d'you mean, 'incoming'?" the astronaut demanded. "Who else is on their way?"
"Your woman," Virgil told him, stepping back into his powered exo-suit. Break time, over.
"O'Bannon?" said John, sea-green eyes widening, slightly.
"You got another?"
John pondered a moment, then said,
"No. Just the one. When will she get here?"
Looked sort of distracted; one hand to his earpiece. Most likely not all the way listening. Virgil shook his head in disgust.
"In about twenty minutes. I need to get this airstrip clear, so let me get back to work, but, um… do yourself a favor, John. Go clean up, look happy to see her, and ditch the cyber-feed. Females need attention, Braniac."
Gulls and budgies circled and swooped overhead, calling and crying, disturbed by the mess. A strong sea breeze ruffled Virgil's un-gelled dark hair, and John's red-golden mess. Behind them, the ocean thundered and roared, more disturbed than the birds, even. Then Scott picked his way over, with Gordon. Like John, they were in uniform.
"What's going on?" Asked Scott, squinting against the sunlight and a thudding no-sleep migraine.
"O'Bannon and Captain Kraft are on their way," John told him. "To, um… assist with crowd control and help shift those refugees, once the GDF shows up."
He was using his mission voice, Virgil noticed. The one that meant, 'Do it my way, or end up in tatters, wrapped around broken fan blades.' With great difficulty, Virgil kept his face as open and sweet as a lamb's. Honestly expected his older brother to protest, but instead, Scott said,
"Your off-the-record opinion, people. What does it mean, if you tell a female 'I love you', and she says, 'I know'?"
John tried to shrug, but couldn't. Not in that bulky yellow exopod.
"It means she knows that you love her," he said, still in mission-mode. Virgil gave him a pitying look.
"Shut up, John. Lie down, before you hurt yourself." (Hadn't forgotten that towel-snap, either.) Turning to Scott, the pilot said, "It means you're still about fifty-five percent in the doghouse. She's mad… but not all-the-way mad, and you need to do something big. Something she'll love, but isn't expecting."
"Like what?" asked Scott, John and Gordon, together.
"When did I turn into Dr. Lonely-hearts?" Virgil growled. "I dunno… depends on the female. You scored big with the dog, Scott. Try something like that, again. Doesn't have to be expensive. Just… sweet, I guess. They like that. And John, for God's sake… tell her how you feel. Three words, Bro. How hard could it be? If you're wondering, she loves you. Emma said so."
Both of his older brothers looked thoughtful. Gordon seemed a little dejected, though. Sort of like Josh.
"You got someone picked out, Kiddo?" Virgil half-joked.
The swimmer shook his sandy-blond head and kicked at a mud-crusted tree trunk, shifting it slightly.
"No… I mean, I got dozens. All the action I want. Hot and cold running females."
"And a raging case of gonna-sypha-herpe-lees, too, if you keep up like that," his least-oldest brother reproved. "Plus, Grandma 'll take you to the vet, and have you fixed."
"Might not be a bad idea," Scott interjected, grinning suddenly. "It'll make him more affectionate, and keep him from wandering. Might get a little fat, though."
"Screw you," muttered Gordon, for more than one reason. There might have been trouble, then, only John 'accidentally' wandered between his two hard-breathing brothers, looking skyward. There was a fast-growing dot up there, headed their way.
"GDF's here," he remarked casually. "Better assemble our houseguests."
Home was about to be theirs, once again, and there were problems enough, without starting more.
XXXXXXXXXXXX
Same place, seven hundred years in the future-
The lieutenant commander shifted from one foot to another, rubbing a big-knuckled hand through his reddish-brown hair.
"Tell you what," he told Sharl, "How about you explain why you were waiting for us… where 'here' is… and how you know my name? Then, I might be inclined to start answering questions."
The tall, green-eyed woman nodded eagerly.
"Of certainty, Honored Sheefold. It is being a star-path, for delight in the doing. We have awaiting you, because the Words are telling us that you will come. 'Here' is Westdome, on Yrth. Your name, and those of all the Lost Squadron, are telling in the Words. You will come. We must welcoming you. Then, in the Seven Days of Foretelling, you will send back."
Sheff's heavy eyebrows shot halfway up to his hairline. Half of that sounded like total nonsense, but…
"Somebody warned you we'd be showing up here?" he blurted, rejecting the plate of flowers and food that one of those weirdings tried to push at him. "They told you to send us back?"
Sharl seemed to droop a little, her outline flickering and blending with her surroundings like a badly photoshopped image. Overhead, beyond that high, transparent dome, a violent blizzard swirled. No sun, no sky that he could see; just pale, filtered light, crumbling stone, and strange people. Yep. Definitely not in Kansas, anymore.
"We cannot to sending you home, Sheefold," the woman admitted, wringing her long golden hands. "Only the Travel-stone is doing that. In the Seven Days of Foretelling, it shall to returning you."
Commander Sheffield's dark eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
"Lemme guess," he said. "It'll take us, and this wall and floor, right back where it brought us from?"
Sharl did not seem happy, but she nodded.
"Is to say yes, Honored Sheefold. The Travel-stone returns, and with you who are here. But, I am asking your helpings, who have waited so long."
Sheff's stomach growled. He was tired, hungry, out of sorts, and about as lost as a guy could get… but he wanted to believe her. Was hard-wired to help a lady in trouble, no matter how odd-looking.
"Okay…" he said, standing down just a micron from Defcon 1. "What seems to be the major malfunction? No promises, but we'll see what we can do to help out."
As long as she got them back to the Travel-stone, within seven days. He'd signed on to storm the castle, not go exploring.