Edited! Thanks for your patience, guys. These interstitial chapters, between explosions of action, are tougher for me to write. I have to spend more quiet time, and attend more closely. Thank you, Bow Echo, Creative Girl, Tikatu and Whirl Girl, for your encouraging comments. Not too much further to go, I think. =)

45

London's New Town, on the Greater Thames Overpass-

A big metal bridge arced gracefully over the Thames; one of several that had been claimed by squatters in this crowded, post ground-car age. Yes, there was government housing, along with government rules and oversight. Most people preferred to strike out on their illegal own, though, finding space wherever they could. Bridgetown was one of those places, packed with criminals, scrapies and other assorted Chavs, including Havok.

She stood in a barren, creaking wood booth, without her impulsive brother. Facing what was left of General Steele, Havok kept her face mostly neutral. The aged old blighter was falling apart, quite literally; seared flesh peeling away from yellowed bones, glazed eyeballs sunken and staring, posture a shambling wreck. Looked a right zombie, he did, and smelt like rubbish left to rot in the sun. The mind inside was alert enough, but barmy as a chipped VR gamer. Kept referring to himself as "The Hood".

"Excellent," he purred, caressing the bit of frost-bitten finger and palm that Havok had brought to him. All around them, in other plywood-and-tarpaulin shacks, other vile deeds were being arranged; other nightmares stirred into motion. This one was hers. "There is more than enough cellular matrix here, with which to clone myself. The Hood shall rise up, again!"

Withered old sod didn't notice that his rant had ejected three teeth, or that one of his fists remained clenched, rictus-tight.

Havok ducked her head a bit, to hide an eye-roll. She'd never considered herself a pretty lass… not with that sly, foxy face and indelible hair-streak… but she'd always been a survivor. She'd always been the one who did the thinking, for her and Fuse, both. Now, with an eye toward payment, the assassin said,

"It's a mummified hand, Guvnor… and not a whole one, at that. How d'you mean to clone with it?" Because, if he died, they'd get f*ck-all, for bank credits.

The shriveled, decaying villain whirled on her. Or, rather, bits of him did. Left leg stayed pretty much in one place, with a quite horrid crackling sound.

"I shall treat with a cyborg. One of the wretched Kanes. Properly threatened, she will construct my regeneration pod!" her employer exulted.

"Aye, that's alreet, then," said Havok, playing along. She could hear the dark, angry river, rushing through the perma-crete pylons below them. The entire bridge shook with its power. "The new body 'll still be naught but a babe, though. Won't it?"

The ragged old nutter lurched toward Havok, grinning like an unearthed skull.

"Ah, yes. It will… but that is where and how we shall use a Dos Santos. Their power over time can age the new body in seconds! All shall be as before, except that now…" he gestured wildly skyward, causing his left ear to rip loose, and hang swinging by threads of tendon and gristle. "Now, International Rescue will be unable to stop me! They are weak, defenceless, and invading their stronghold shall require no more than a fleet of drones, and a single shuttle!"

The "Hood" laughed again, spraying bits of festering lung-meat and part of his lower lip. Havok stepped nimbly aside. Let him fall apart. Not her look-out, so long as the blighter weren't contagious. All she cared about was getting paid, and having someone to slaughter.

"Where 're we supposed to find a "Dos Santos"?" she asked him, easing her way to the triple-locked chipboard door. "One on every street corner, is there?"

"Steele's captives," he hissed, sounding like a very pleased cobra. "All of them brain-scraped and collared, as I instructed. One of them is a Dos Santos. All you have to do is bring him to me."

Right. One cyborg, one time-bender, and Bob's your uncle.

"Gonna need a few quid, first," she suggested, still working her way out of the damp-smelling room. "Operatin' costs, Guvnor. The Chaos Cruiser needs fuel." And, so did Fuse.

"Again?!" the Hood raged, dribbling something black and disquieting out of one ear. "Considering the result of your last mission, I should be the one demanding money!" He paid up, though, transferring two-thousand credits with a posh, snobby gesture.

Havok got away from the old bog-corpse as soon as she could, edging out through that chipped wooden door, and back out onto Bridgetown's long central aisle. Must've been ten-thousand people crowded onto that rusted grey span, living the best way they could. Hawking what they'd pinched, or offering services.

Havok stopped for a large sack of protein cube curry, on her way back to the hidden cruiser. Fuse would be hungry. He always was. That extra tonnage and circuitry required upkeep, or he'd sink into another calorie-coma. The food would be cold by the time she reached their under-bridge hiding place, but no matter. Fuse had no more taste than a kitchen rubbish-disposal, and about as fine manners.

She found him lounging in the tech seat, feet up on the console, arms folded across his wide chest, watching telly.

"All right, Fuse?" she greeted him, tossing her brother the soggy food sack.

"All right, Havok?" he responded. "Paid out, did he?"

"Not all the way," she told him. Then, cuffing the side of his bleached, corn-rowed head, "Use yer manners, ya dumb wank! There's chopsticks an' napkins in there!"

"Ooh…posh, are we?" Fuse sneered, heaving another glob of curried protein at his gaping maw. "Don't matter how it gets in, eh? All looks th' same at splash-down, 'cept when there's Injun-corn in."

Havok rolled her blue eyes, not hungry anymore. Shifting back to the mission, she plunked herself down in the pilot's seat with a rattle of tight purple armour.

"We're off t' GDF headquarters, next," the girl told her brother, who'd relented enough to push some curry her way, on a stained napkin. He'd included the chopsticks, even; stuck perkily upright among spicy, yellow-brown lumps.

"Anyroad, what d' we want there?" Fuse demanded, looking more rude and suspicious than usual, with curry stains on his broad chest and big arms.

"One a' them scrapies. Got some kinda time powers," Havok replied carelessly, while doing her best to seize slimy, sauce-covered chunks with her chopsticks. Gave it up as a bad job, in the end, and just used her fingers.

Fuse had turned his seat around to face hers. Looking unusually serious, he said,

"Them Specials 're nuthin' but trouble, Sis. Ma said…"

"Belt it, Fuse. Your mam's dead. So's my pap. Leave it. They wasn't much good to us, alive, and I sure as h*ll don't need their advice, dead. Now, if we wanna get paid, we're gonna have t' finish this job, an' that means breaking into the GDF lock-up, an' stealing a d*mn Dos Santos. Got it?"

Fuse ran a big, armoured finger around the inside of the curry box, then licked it clean, and belched. Like keeping a dog, it was; a big, stupid, ravenous (all she had left in the world) dog. Now, he said,

"Wottever. Chance t' get outta this can, an' hear some screams, eh? No one shakes 'em up like the Chaos Crew."

Havok smiled at him.

"That's right, Fuse. We stay strong, we stay fast, and we stay together. No Specials got anythin' on us."

International Rescue, either. And, after Mars, Havok badly wanted a rematch with Kayo and Gordon Tracy, with Lee Taylor and their cocky little marine. Maybe, she thought, IR would respond to a prison break… if enough lives hung in the balance. The thought brought a thin, private smile to her face, because, if you wanted to catch a big fish, all it took was the right sort of bait.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Leaving London, in a class-A GDF shuttle-

He'd stopped in to see Pete, who was still on life support; too doped up to do more than clasp his hand once for 'yes', twice for 'no'. He'd also seen Tanusha, Gordon and Rigby… though he hadn't let on that he was taking more than just a turn round the hospital gardens. They'd find out, soon enough. Everyone would.

Jeff would have flown… considered himself the better pilot… but Lee insisted. His friend was in a dangerous mood, and the air between them just about crackled. They were headed for Tracy Island, against Taylor's advice and better judgment. No Gordon or Kayo aboard. They were needed in London, keeping watch over Pete and the rest of the colonists.

"Ain't a good idear, Jeffery," Lee grumbled, for perhaps the fifth time. "You been warned ta stay away, an' ya know d*mn well why."

Jeff shook his head, stubbornly. McCord hadn't liked the notion, either, but he was too drugged to get up and make trouble. Not so, Lee Taylor.

"Granted. But Brains needs a live subject to culture that virus in, Lee. It's the only way he can create and test a real cure. You mentioned it, yourself, this morning."

Eyes locked on the pearl-grey horizon, on that rumpled and surging ocean, Taylor snorted rudely.

"I also said you was told not t' come by, dumbass. Ya got four boys down with this thing, already. Want t' break Beth's heart some more? Is that it?"

Sitting beside his angry best friend, Jeff kept his own hard, brown-eyed stare well forward. Finally, he started to talk again, saying,

"We lose a little something with every generation, Lee. I'm tougher than they are. I don't get sick. Never have. And, I'm betting that this virus won't work me over as hard as it has them; that I'll survive long enough to help Brains learn what he needs to do. I have to help, and if all I can do is turn myself into a human guinea pig, then Goddam it, that's what's going to happen!"

Lee kept silent for a few tens of miles. Then, speaking out in a fierce, urgent rush, he said,

"They ain't weaker 'n you, Jeffery. I been there. I watched 'em grow up. Spent a year on Mars with Jason, and taught ev'ry d*mn one a' them boys to fly, 'cept f'r Spencer, 'cause you was there, first. Him, I taught how ta shoot. Maybe they don't bench-press in your league, yet, Jeff… but they ain't weak. And ain't one of 'em been sick, neither. Not since, oh… '52, when Victor come down with th' strep throat."

More silence followed, except for engine noise, turbulent airflow, and beeping cabin machinery. Then,

"It's the only way I can help them, Lee. Don't take this away from me."

Taylor raked a big hand through his dense, brownish-grey hair. Mulish and quiet, he grumbled,

"I ain't takin' nuthin', Jeffery… An' if you wasn't m' best friend, we'd be turned right around an' headed f'r the psych ward. Have ya even asked Doc if he wants ya there?!"

"No," Jeff admitted, still not looking across. "He'll just try to stop me from coming. They're my sons, Lee. They need help, and I know what I'm doing."

"Y'r a d*mn fool," his friend growled. "An' y'r makin' a Goddam serious mistake. Just makin' a bad situation that much worse. Cain't b'lieve I'm helpin' ya do it."

Except that… just maybe, he'd have done the same thing, in Jeff Tracy's place. Would have thrown his own life away, for a chance at saving Spencer, Jason, Victor and Alvin. Thinking these thoughts, about boys who'd come to feel just like his own, Lee got a sudden idea. Carefully, he said,

"What if ya stay in th' shuttle, whilst I bring in some kinda tissue sample? Bet Doc could come up with a fake-Tracy germ vat, just by growin' some o' yer cells."

Taylor stopped talking, then; giving the idea a chance to set in and take root. He was trying to save his best friend's life, and Beth's heart, but Jeff could be stubborn as h*ll, sometimes.

The silence stretched brittle and cold between them, for several long seconds. Then,

"How do you plan to take a tissue sample?" Jeff asked, looking very slightly aside at Captain Taylor. Fighting a smile, Lee said,

"Easy. I'm gonna let ya give blood the ol' fashioned way: bust ya in th' face till ya pop a few teeth. Bet there's all kinds a' useful cells in them suckers."

Right.

"If it makes you feel better, fine. One punch."

"Two," his friend insisted. "One f'r me, and one f'r Beth. She deserves ta take a poke, too. With a tire iron. There's a clean coffee cup around here, somewheres, and it's for a good cause. Y'll thank me, later."

"I dunno, Lee…" Jeff mused, massaging his mostly repaired gut. "Think you can hit me that hard?"

"I aim ta have fun tryin'," his friend replied, grinning wickedly. "An' if it don't work, y' can allus still turn y'rself in as a human test tube, no problem. H*ll, I'll even help wheel ya in."

Jeff shot him a sideways look.

"You're a real pal, Taylor."

"Anytime."

The silence had grown comfortable again, and they were almost a hundred and fifty miles nearer to Tracy Island, when Jeff said,

"Whatever happens, I want you to take care of Ma and the kids for me, Lee. Keep the family together, keep 'em safe. I promised Lucy, you promise me."

Captain Taylor looked surprised.

"Y' know I'd do that anyways, Jeff. I…"

"Promise me. It's important."

Lee nodded, hands tightening some on the transport's gleaming chrome steering yoke.

"Ya got m' sworn word, Jeffery. Long as I'm needed, I'll be there. But it don't matter none, 'cause all you're fixin' ta lose is some teeth, and a whole lotta pride."

Well, at least he had something to look forward to, on this exciting tropical vacation. Following the sun, they flew westward, rushing for Tracy Island, and four very sick boys.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Somewhat later-

Dr. Hackenbacker had, as it were, stacked all of his chips on a single color, betting that a small, lean team of experts (and one beast of burden) could make the time jump more efficiently than a troop. Thus, he gathered in the time lab with Moffy, Lieutenant Commander Sheffield, Major Pope, and Caleb Gonzalez, of the "New Crew".

Pope was a fellow engineer, Sheffield was most familiar with the situation, seven hundred years hence, Moffy was all that he wanted from life, and young Gonzalez could carry equipment and take pictures.

Like John Tracy, Brains had a marvelous capacity to handle multiple problems at once… but he was fast approaching his limit. Quite simply, there was just too much going on. And now, on top of everything else, Jeff had returned. Partly. His tooth dentin cells were being used to culture a viral-growth substrate; something in which Brains could test possible cures. (Rather, Doctors West, Early, Alonso and Kallaua could test them. He had business in the far future.)

The time lab was as ready as he could make it; that stone locked down into its cradle, beginning to glow ever brighter as energy built up within it. He'd positioned sensors all around the blue time crystal, needing to collect data, if he meant to control and use the rare, precious thing.

The jump, when it happened, was sudden. That light expanded, heart-breakingly pure; seeming about to whisper a secret so profound as to make him immortal. Then came a note, a single clean chime that cut right through and enveloped Brains in its gentle, ferocious vibration. He felt movement, on some axis that had no 3D space analogue. 'That way' was all he could think, inadequately. Then, the light faded away, leaving Brains still holding Moffy's right hand, somewhen entirely else.