Birdwatching

John had been animatedly talking with, or rather to, Gordon about his latest studies, and though endeavouring to remain alert, Gordon looked as if he was ready to drop off to sleep at any second.

“… That’s what O’Bannon had theorised anyway. We told him she was mad! Propelled flight? Preposterous!”

John paused his blabbering only to have another bite of his cheesecake. If nothing else, the fork clinking with the side of the bowl gave Gordon the chance to momentarily reawaken himself.

“Though, with that being said,” John continued irrespective of his brother’s interest once his mouthful had been swallowed, “I have devised an idea for a steam powered glider. Of course, the work is still far from complete, and the mathematics still need major adjustments to ensure—”

“Brother,” Gordon quickly interrupted, “I love you and I’m happy for your findings, but may we please continue this conversation after I’ve finished my pudding? I’d rather not think of flying machines while I eat my custard.”

“Scared of heights?” Tanusha teased in between bites of her own dessert.

Gordon scoffed. “No! I’m just… tired from a long day, that’s all.”

“Long day?” John questioned cynically. “You do not know the true meaning of a ‘long day’, brother.”

“I do!”

“Devising ways to meet with your secret belle and concocting travel plans for the autumn months are not activities that are known to be strenuous.”

Despite Gordon only being three years younger than John, the two had the least in common with one another compared to their other siblings. Occasionally the pair might have seen eye-to-eye but the occurrence was rare, and never was the divide more obvious than when they fought over their ideas as to what constituted as x, y or z.

“You only think that because you have never tried to accomplish those things, John… Hold on! I do not have a secret belle!”

Murmurs of disagreement from around the table responded. To Scott’s surprise, even he had subconsciously joined in.

“I do not!” Gordon insisted.

“I’m afraid some of us even have a fairly good idea as to who it is, Gords.” Tanusha reached over towards him, her hand covering his own as if she was offering him comfort. Her action might have been convincing were it not for the devilish smirk that had spread across her features.

Gordon took note instantly and tugged his hand back, quickly reaching for his wine instead.

“You know?” Virgil asked their sister hastily. “Pray, do tell us.”

“Tan, do not utter a single word to these traitors!” Their floundering brother glared at Tanusha, but his cheeks started to turn the same shade as the wine that sloshed in his glass when he saw that their sister remained smirking. Gordon cleared his throat. “… Of course, you are entirely wrong, as I do not have a secret belle, but still! Do not speak regardless!”

“You’re afraid I’ve got you bang to rights, aren’t you?”

“Pah! You have never been so wrong in your life, Tanusha!”

It was somewhat admirable to watch Gordon stick to his guns and continue protesting the very obvious fact, but even from where Scott was sat at the head of the table, he could see his brother’s confident exterior falter for a brief moment.

It was of no news to him that his brothers held secrets. He had plenty himself which he would never share with any of them, no matter how much he loved and respected his family. Secrets, Scott had long since decided, were necessary evils that were a natural part of life.

Some secrets were more obvious between the family.

For instance, Virgil’s love of art was certainly no confidential matter, but those desires of his to one day become an artist certainly were. Only those closest to him were privy to those dreams.

John, whose mind was one of the greatest in the city, had his own secret network of servants who helped him keep tabs on the latest news and gossip around town, without having to rely on the gossip rags that circulated, but no-one beyond the walls of the Tracy Townhouse knew of that.

Then there was Alan, who clearly held more secrets than Scott had initially been led to believe. That cat he had tied himself to felt like just the beginning of an endless, tangled web when it came to his youngest brother.

And Tanusha… Well, she was perhaps the biggest enigma out of all of them. Despite being raised alongside her for most of their lives, Scott had come to find he knew very little about his sister these days. From what she liked to what she disliked, Tan kept herself to herself, and lately, that distance had been growing even wider. Scott put it down to her simply growing up and, for that reason alone, he surmised that she probably had the most secrets out of all of them currently, secrets that only Lady Creighton-Ward was privy to.

But, then again, maybe even Lady Penelope did not know all of his sister’s secrets.

“If you are keeping a secret belle, Gordon,” Scott warned, “for the love of God, please make sure you are not caught. Do not hurt Tan’s chances this season, I implore you.”

“I’ll have you know that I am being very careful!” Gordon protested once again, catching himself all too late when he realised what he had said. “… And by that, what I mean to say is that if I were to do such a thing as to keep a secret belle—which I am not!—I would be very careful. Besides, Tan is already receiving plenty of suitors who are interested in her. I believe one even called today, isn’t that right, Virg?”

“I beg your pardon?” Tanusha whirled on Virgil.

Virgil, who had, up until a few seconds ago, been enjoying his cheesecake and the free entertainment his siblings had been providing him, suddenly turned very sheepish. For the first time since they’d sat down to eat, his smile had faded.

“Yeah,” Gordon continued, oblivious to Virgil’s look of distress. “Some Captain Dwyane… something or other!”

Tanusha scoffed. “Captain Wayne Rigby?” She did not cease staring at poor Virgil. If looks could kill, Scott would have had one less brother.

“Precisely!” Gordon proclaimed. “That’s what I said!”

Their sister’s dessert spoon fell from her hand and clattered loudly into her bowl. Her eyes remained like daggers. “And you failed to inform me of this when I explicitly asked you earlier, Vee?”

“Did I?” Virgil squeaked. Squeaked. It was the most unsettling of sounds. “I thought I had informed you…?”

“No. You did not.”

“Tan…” Scott began, sensing the start of yet another argument and wanting to attempt to calm the situation before irretrievable words were said and the rest of the evening inevitably blew up. They had been doing so well tonight…

“I told you already, I’m not interested in him. Pick anyone else, just not him.” At Virgil’s silence, Tanusha turned her glaring hazel eyes onto her eldest brother. “I assume you’ve already spoken with him, then?”

“He’s arranged to come back tomorrow—”

“—Without me present.”

“Tanusha, please!” Scott’s voice rose above hers. Once again, in the space of a few hours, he was finding himself snapping at a sibling. This was precisely what he wanted to avoid. He took a breath and exhaled deeply. “I will be speaking to him tomorrow but that is all I plan on doing. I want to hear him out, listen to his intentions. Given recent events, he might not even be willing to marry you after all.”

The last sentence was not meant to be an insult, yet that was how his sister perceived it.

Tanusha glowered, punctuating every word of Scott’s as she repeated it back. “He might not even be willing to marry you?”

Scott ignored his need to physically gulp. “I am just being realistic, Tan. He may not accept the dowry, for one thing, or—”

“You know as well as I do that your father put forward an exquisite dowry, Scott.”

“—you never know, he may be one of those progressives who want to talk first. My speaking to him tomorrow does not require one to make a promise to him, nor does a deal have to be struck. You need not worry.”

“I am not worried.” Her voice barely raised as she relaxed back into her seat, as though she were fully in control of the conversation. “You know precisely who I will settle for. We had that conversation only last week.”

“Remaining realistic,” Scott emphasised that word again, “I am not sure that there will be a man who fits your extensive criteria.”

“It is not that extensive—”

He arched a brow. “Someone who, not only has fifty thousand as a yearly income, but who is also a scholar and a recluse and of that age you wish? It is an incredibly high order to meet, Tan.”

“Yes, it is, and that is exactly why I chose it.”

Scott pushed away his bowl of ice-cream. Another deep breath was taken, aware that his three brothers had grown silent around the table. None of them had made a move to leave the table yet; a sign that they were not keen on getting involved but wished to see the disagreement through to the end. Scott couldn’t blame them. “I thought we’d spoken about this, Tan.”

“We spoke, yes. But as you so eloquently put, brother; speaking does not require one to make a promise.”

He bristled. “This isn’t the same thing—”

“Isn’t it? Why not? Because you are two men making a business deal and I am a woman, cast off to the side? Her opinion moot?”

“Tanusha…”

“Well, I care not! Speak with him, do not speak with him, the choice is yours, Scott. But, if you dare make arrangements without so much as having the decency to inform me of those intentions first, so help me God, Scott Tracy, I will make your life hell.” She glanced around at the others. “I will endeavour to make all your lives hell!”

None of them doubted Tanusha’s words for a minute. When said with such conviction, and with past experiences of her very successful revenge schemes when they were children, it was impossible to treat her threats as anything but promises.

Before Scott could attempt to calm her down, Tanusha threw her napkin onto the table and stood up. “Excuse me, I need some air.”

She left the dining room in silence, leaving behind her four brothers. They cast uneasy glances between each other.

Tired and wanting to finish the meal before any further fallout could occur, Scott shrugged and went back to his ice-cream. “She’ll come to her senses soon enough.”

“This is Tan, Scott.” Virgil gently reminded him. “When she’s set on something, she’s set on it. No-one will change her mind.”

“Yeah, and this time it just so happens to be her wanting to become a spinster.” Gordon unhelpfully added.

“That isn’t what she wants, Gordon.”

“Isn’t it, Virgil?” John was the one who spoke. “Because she isn’t naive enough to be clueless of what unmarried women become. If she wants to remain in England, she has to marry.”

“And she knows that! She just… needs to find the right man for her.”

“Her list of demands are ridiculous! A man who makes fifty thousand a year, and is a scholar and a recluse? None of the scholars I knew even come close that amount! She’s being difficult for no reason.”

“John…” Scott cautioned. His usually stoic brother seemed overly vexed this evening. He wondered if something might have been wrong with him, though he dared not ask presently. Scott sensed another fight brewing. Though he hoped his instinct was wrong—for he couldn’t bare three arguments in one evening—he had learned to never disregard his brotherly instincts when they screamed at him so.

Something was wrong, and it was his job to try and fix it.

Which was a tall order when John paid no heed to his warnings and continued his rant. “You know I am all for forward thinking women, I even helped Tan acquire some books that were difficult to attain, but we must be realistic in this situation, as Scott said. Tanusha has to learn to hold back some of that… that gusto.”

“John.”

“She cannot be making demands like this, not if she wants to remain here. And you,” he pointed towards Scott with his dessert fork, “are enabling her to behave in such a way.”

“Says the man who just openly admitted to surreptitiously giving her books?”

And there was the start of another argument.

Three for three.

Scott should have just let it be, should have just let John get off whatever it was that was on his chest, and then called it a night.

John’s attention zoned in on Scott. When infuriated, John’s voice slowed down to a condescending speed. He never yelled, never raised his voice. Cool, calm, collected and in control; that was John Tracy in an argument. Out of the six of them, he was probably the most unnerving. “Those were years ago. I am talking about the here and now. If father was here, he’d have been embarrassed to have witnessed Tan’s behaviour, not to mention how you handled Alan earlier.”

Scott had been willing to accept the mistake of baiting this current argument, had even been willing to accept yet another defeat in a battle of words and temper if it had meant he could cease the fighting and go to bed, but John bringing up the contestation with Alan hit a sore spot, and Scott rose to meet the challenge. If there was one thing the Tracy brothers all shared, it was their stubbornness.

“You don’t know the full story.”

“No, Scott, you don’t know the full story of what has been happening here before you arrived.”

He knew the situation with their youngest brother was presently of little concern, but it was clear that John had more words he wished to share on that issue. Scott tried to battle the growing frustration. Another younger brother questioning him? If their father had indeed been present, Scott was sure he would have had something to say regarding John’s behaviour, too.

“Father isn’t here, though, is he?” Scott rose his voice again. “He left us to sort Tanusha out.”

“Correction, Scott: he left you to sort it out.”

“Yes, because it always comes down to me, doesn’t it?”

“Scotty, he doesn’t mean it like that…” Virgil quickly tried to interject.

“Then what does he mean, pray tell?”

“I mean,” John answered before Virgil could get another word in, “that you need to stop mollycoddling her—”

“I am not mollycoddling anyone! I want what is best for Tanusha—”

“Then make sure Captain Rigby agrees to marry her tomorrow and that you arrange it for the summer, as we had planned before coming down to London, regardless to what Tanusha wants!”

Scott blinked. Something had definitely happened for John to turn so callous. “Are you suggesting we betray the trust of our sister?”

“No.” John bit back quickly, defensively. “I am only suggesting that you make the right call for her, for her future. Scott, you know what will happen if you turn down a perfectly good marriage prospect for her.”

“What if it isn’t a good marriage prospect?”

“I’ve already done my research. Captain Rigby is a good prospect.”

“Yes, because servants and gossip are the best sources for factual information!”

“How dare you—”

“Enough!” Virgil’s voice boomed across the dining table, finally having had enough of the endless bickering.

Both brothers were silenced by that single word, and Virgil stood up, so forcefully, he shook the heavy wooden table as he did so. On the other side of it, Gordon physically flinched.

“Enough with this incessant bickering. It will get neither of you anywhere! Scott,” Virgil turned to face his eldest brother, “tomorrow you will meet with Captain Rigby, be informed of his intentions and act accordingly afterwards. John,” he then turned to face his other brother, “you will remain out of the conversation until I deem it necessary for you to re-enter it.”

“I think that’s hardly fair—”

“What you are asking of Tan—what we are all asking of Tan—is hardly fair on her. Perhaps after a long night’s sleep, you will awaken with a fresher mind and a new outlook on this situation.”

Virgil’s words effectively ended the argument. John said no more, though Scott was certain his brother was already working through ideas on how to apologise. It was typical of him; instead of allowing his heightened emotions to play out, he methodically analysed them until they became an index of errors he might (or might not) have made. Everything had to make sense to John, one way or another, and, in that moment, Scott realised he wouldn’t change his brother for the world.

He wouldn’t change any of them.

Feeling deeply guilty over not being able to stop the arguments that had unfolded, Scott offered weakly, “We’re sorry, Virgil.”

“Saying sorry will not bring back my appetite. It’s a shame, I was enjoying this trifle. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe I also require some air.”

As Virgil left, so too did Gordon quietly. He cited no reason and simply upped and followed Virgil out of the dining room, probably to avoid any further fallout from John and Scott.

With the switch of a lever, the airlock systems activate, the hiss it makes reverberating through the craft. He gets up from the pilot’s seat and swiftly makes his way to the back of the cockpit, opening the door to the airlock compartment. Three heads swivel towards him.

“Alright, my buddy’s dropping the rescue cage right now. He’ll lift you up two at a time, got it?”

“We’ll go first, then,” Dr. Fuhrmann replies, electing himself and his fellow scientific associate, Carl Jorgan, to be hoisted to safety first.

Gordon nods.

“Up you go, then!”

He watches as the two men pull themselves through the overhead airlock. Once they’re out, he returns to the cockpit to return to the radio system.

“Thunderbird 4 to Thunderbird 2, Fuhrmann and Jorgan should be boarding the rescue cage any minute now.”

“I’ve got Jorgan,” Virgil responds, before quickly following up. “And there’s the doctor. Raising them both now.”

With time to kill in between those two being hoisted up and the cage lowered once more to pick up the remaining rescuee, Gordon takes a moment to address the other person on board; Lady Penelope stands cooly to the side, looking all the part of a woman who belongs right where she is and not like the captured damsel facing imminent doom she had been less than an hour ago.

“Should I have Virgil take you up?” He asks her, unsure of what exactly she’s been waiting for.

“No need. Parker should be around with the Rolls Royce once we have the last of the men aboard Thunderbird 2.”

So that’s what caused the slight delay in readying Pod 4 back at the loading bay. He honestly had not even realized that FAB 1 was tucked in the back behind Thunderbird 4, though in hindsight, it makes sense.

“F.A.B.,” He tells her.

Another round trip made by the rescue cage later and Thunderbird 4 is vacant of any rescuees, leaving only Gordon and her ladyship. She moves out of the cockpit and, with a glance to the open hatch, looks back at him.

“Do be a gentleman and help me up, would you?”

“Sure thing, Lady Penelope.”

He comes over and crouches down, cupping his hands in front of him and making sure his fingers are interlocked. Lady Penelope moves gracefully, barely hesitating to plant her foot on his hands and clearing the hatch without any struggle once he has hoisted her up.

Gordon waves his hand, his palm stinging slightly from where her heel had poked it. He’s sure glad he’s never been on the receiving end of one of those before. The same cannot be said for the faces and stomachs of many ne’er-do-wells out there in the world.

Back in the pilot’s seat, he has just enough time to witness FAB 1 on its hydrofoils pulling away from the side of Thunderbird 4 before the peace is disturbed. In a way he’s never felt it do before, the ocean heaves, his view of the sky briefly disappearing into the water as the sub is pulled under from the force of whatever it is that is happening below.

“Virgil! Something’s happening!” Gordon exclaims, another shudder rocking Thunderbird 4 like she’s a rubber ducky in a bathtub that someone’s splashing in.

“Gordon, get out of there!” Scott tells him, also being on the line, and Gordon doesn’t need to be told twice.

Though, saying is easier than doing. It takes him strong-arming the controls and diving some good few meters below the surface for him to clear whatever was pulling Thunderbird 4 downwards. Even then, he can still feel the sea rolling tumultuously in steady beats, throwing a tantrum the likes of which he’s never experienced.

“I’m okay, Scott. What’s going on?”

“That’s what we’d like to know,” Virgil interjects, joined by the sound of Brains humming thoughtfully behind him.

“I-It’s possible that the, ah, e-experimental translocator h-has been, remotely activated.”

“Remotely activated? By who? I thought we’d already handled that creep in the lab,” Scott asks.

That’s what Gordon would like to know, too. After all, he’s the one who had personally launched a torpedo into one of the walls of said lab in order to flush the criminal out of the building. He’d dropped to the sea floor like a rock, which makes sense given that he was wearing some sort of mechanical suit.

At least, that was the impression Gordon was under, hence his willingness to go through with the plan in the first place. He’s got to have some way of breathing in that tin can if he’s wearing it to begin with.

“Penelope says that you guys got the wrong fellow, or rather, the wrong robot,” John informs them. “The real Mr. Steelman is probably halfway across the globe.”

“That was a robot?” Gordon asks, somewhat amazed.

“The translocator, Brains. What is it doing?” Scott butts in, addressing the issue at hand.

“I-If I’m not mistaken, and it is w-working as intended, it should be tr-tr-translocating m-massive chunks of ocean water elsewhere.”

That explains the constant tug Gordon is feeling and why it’s in such a steady rhythm. It’s as though someone is stopping and starting a whirlpool over and over, consistently tugging Thunderbird 4 towards it.

“How do we stop it?” He asks.

“G-Gordon, you’ll need to g-go down and take a c-closer look. Can you do that?”

Can he? He’s never navigated conditions such as these before, but he figures the alternative is to let this machine run amok and drain the ocean of its water, which is a disaster in and of itself.

“I’ll try!”

“Careful, Gordon,” Virgil warns him.

He doesn’t give him a reply, already busy putting Thunderbird 4 into action. The little submarine proceeds to dive even deeper, heading steadily towards the underwater laboratory base that he had rescued the kidnapped men from not too long ago. It takes longer than he would like to get low enough to avoid the machine’s pull, but it’s too risky to do otherwise, so he takes it slowly.

His reward is a full view of the laboratory, the hexagonal structure dwarfing his craft with ease. It’s a massive thing stationed on six thick support beams, all of them with mechanical outfitting to them in order to keep it steady even when the below-surface tide becomes rough. All of the lights are still on, brilliant yellow rays cutting through the dark sea surrounding it in small bursts.

Gordon can’t see the center of the building from this angle, but he knows what’s there; A giant hole smack dab in the middle, with multiple mechanical rings surrounding it on the inside and a whole lot more technology connected to that. It’s all been activated now, those rings spinning rapidly and pulsing, hard enough that he can feel it rattling Thunderbird 4 even with the distance between him and it.

The translocator goes off again. This time, Gordon is close enough to really feel the tug, his entire craft jerking forward as he grips the steering wheel tightly. Even with the water in between them, he hears the sound it makes loud and clear, like a bomb going off in reverse. Those three men that had been kidnapped here and forced to work on Mr. Steelman’s designs have created something truly incredible, as well as truly terrifying.

“I’m here! Boy, this is really something else. The machine’s fully powered on now. I’m pretty sure those rings we saw are turning faster than I could say.”

“Turning o-off the translocator manually w-will be a challenge…” Brains admits, which is not exactly what Gordon was hoping to hear.

“Well why not just smash the whole thing? One missile to the legs should do the trick,” Scott supplies.

Gordon hears Brains whine softly, to which he feels a smidge of remorse. He remembers the ride to the rescue site in Thunderbird 2 and when they’d been told what it was those fellows had been building. While a lot of it went over Gordon’s head, Brains’ eyes had practically popped out of that big skull of his before he politely simplified what it was; A machine that could, in theory, instantly translocate a specific space over some indeterminate amount of time, and to an entirely new location to boot.

It’s definitely doing the translocating part, at the very least. Either way, anyone who knows Brains could guess that he wishes to keep the machine around to study, but in the end, he relents.

“Y-You’re right…”

“That’s it, then. Gordon, take that thing down,” Scott instructs him, to which he’s happy to oblige.

“F.A.B.!”

Pulling back to compensate for the distance he’d lost in the last activation of the device and the space he’ll need to safely bring destruction to the laboratory. Once he’s found himself in the optimal position, he clicks a button to open one of the tubes on the front of Thunderbird 4, using the console to ready two demolition missiles.

“Firing a pair of missiles in three… Two… One!”

A press of another button and one missile jets out, followed by another. Both land right on target, exploding in a great blast the moment they meet the leg of the building. Rubble flies out a short distance before being caught by the gravity of water, slowly drifting down. The entirety of the building lurches now, leaning precariously as cracks form across the walls. It won’t be long now until the entire laboratory splits in half from the strain.

“Missiles launched and hit,” Gordon reports, to which Scott responds.

“Good. Now come back topside Gordon, then load Thunderbird 4 back into–”

Scotts voice suddenly cuts out, replaced with a thundering BVOOM that has Gordon’s head feeling like his skull is a gong. All of a sudden, he isn’t rightside up anymore, Thunderbird 4 having been yanked forward like a yo-yo on string, her nose both diagonal and facing upwards. Because of the sudden and new orientation, he finds himself being smacked against the back of his pilot’s seat, his hair tousled by his hat falling off of his head.

“--Gordon!”

“Huh?” He groans.

Shaking his head, he has to reach up in order to grab the steering wheel and turn Thunderbird 4 so that she’s got him sitting upright once more. The moment he does, he freezes, his eyes widening.

The translocator hasn’t turned off yet. He can hear it spinning rapidly around him now, see the bright light it emits, a neon flurry of colors that strains his eyes. Behind that, there’s crumbling, crackling, electricity and wires being severed and snapped, the hum of energy being built up.

Gordon opens his mouth. No noise of terror leaves him, because he’s International Rescue, and International Rescue always remains calm under pressure.

“Come in, Gordon! What just happened?”

Though, maybe he’s simply too shocked to scream. That could be it as well.

“Scott! Virgil! It didn’t turn off yet, I’m–”

The bed was new, he could feel that stiff, new feeling mattresses had. All the walls were bright and shiny and the smell of paint lingered on the edges. There was a table set against the wall with a jug of water on it.

He was covered in bandages too, the worst of the knife-work now treated. Scott still felt like one giant bruise and he knew that his broken leg would probably need more than just a cast. Not that it felt like the leg had been….

Huh. Only the visible wounds had been treated…

Something was going to happen. And it wasn’t going to be good.

For the next few days he drifted in and out of consciousness as his injuries healed and various nurses and doctors treated him. Scott had once woken to the sound of people arguing, but he’d been too out of it to understand, but the next time he’d woken up his leg had been set and put into a cast.

Every time he woke up he was conscious a little longer than before. He was laden with IVs and as soon as he was more capable of thought the first thing he’d done was to tear them out.

So now he was cuffed to the bed rails. Even when asleep he was cuffed. It was the most uncomfortable position.

But it wasn’t until he’d been able to stay awake solidly for more than four hours that he was paid a visit by a person that wasn’t a medic.

That person was new to him in person, but he knew who she was. He’d seen her on the news. His knowledge must have shown on his face and his surprise even more so when he was greeted with perfect English with just the barest trace of an accent.

‘My name is Stabshauptmannn Koch.’

Scott just stared at her. He dearly wished his hands were free so he could cross his arms so he looked as defiant as he felt because he was sure he didn’t come across like that at all. The merest glimmer of a smile flitted across the woman’s face before she straightened up.

‘Prepare yourself, First Lieutenant Tracy. My superior is about to arrive. It would be best if you are respectful.’ ‘Best for whom?’ ‘Best for you. And your father.’

His heart stuttering in his chest made the monitors scream and it took an enormous effort to get his breathing under control. All the while the woman just stood there.

There must have been some kind of signal that Scott had not been privy to, for the woman smartly sidestepped twice and held a crisp salute as the door opened. Two people entered, both wearing Bereznik uniforms with high ranking showing.

One he knew. His torturer leered at him but he wiped the smirk off his face at Scott’s raised eyebrow when the man he was standing behind paused and made as if to turn. He didn’t complete the turn, however, stopping to acknowledge the salute of the young woman before turning back to Scott. Who filed that piece of information away for later contemplation.

‘I am Generaloberst Koch, Oberleutnant Tracy.’ ‘Generaloberst.’ ‘As you can imagine, I am a very busy man, Oberleutnant. I do not have time for you, your nation nor the petty demands of the World Government.’

Scott held his tongue. He wanted to scream at the man that if Bereznik hadn’t attacked Poland and annexed almost the entire country then none of this would have happened, but the mention of his father had him bite the retort back.

‘You, Oberleutnant Tracy, are a spy. Shot down over the sovereign territory of Bereznik after landing in a small town and stealing secrets.’ ‘Wha-What?’

The man sighed at the interruption and inclined his head. As quick as a flash the other man was across the room and Scott’s head was ringing from a resounding blow. Once he’d recovered his hearing it was to notice anger clear on the Colonel-General’s face. He was furiously berating the Major and Scott was impressed that he didn’t raise his voice despite the anger. The Major took the dressing down but as his eyes slid to his Scott knew that, given half a chance, he’d be bearing the brunt of that.

A clearing of his throat and the Colonel-General turned back to face him. The man was carved from ice, Scott thought, no trace of emotion could be seen on him.

‘As I was saying. As you are a spy you are to stand trial in the capital. You are here to get well enough to stand trial. Once you are fit enough to travel you will stand trial for the world to see how Bereznik deals with spies.’

The man turned, saluted the Stabshauptmannn and left. The Major, with one last hate-filled look at Scott, marched after him, but Koch stayed where she was.

Scott thought carefully over the next couple of hours. It would kill his father to see him paraded around as a political prisoner and on trial. Everyone knew that Bereznik wasn’t merciful, they had executed their own people for far less crimes.

If they weren’t going to transport him until he was well, then he had to remain as he was. He couldn’t get to the IVs anymore, but he could and would do whatever it took.

Stabshauptmannn Koch stayed in his room almost the entire time. There were three others who rotated out with her, all very lower rank officers, but Koch was there almost all the time.

Two days after the visit the medics considered that he was well enough to be started on some real food alongside the nutrient IV. And Scott made his decision.

Every piece of food was refused. Every cup of water. Everything even remotely food orientated denied.

At first the doctors and nurses were unconcerned. It wasn’t that uncommon for prisoners to refuse sustenance, but once they realised they weren’t getting better they usually gave in. No one went on hunger strike any more, it was a totally ineffective method of communication. Given enough time they were positive this man would be no different.

They were wrong.

As Scott continued to refuse he could see the sense of alarm turn to panic among the medical staff. Even the ever-stoic Koch was starting to look concerned – although that could have been wishful thinking on Scott’s part.

He was getting weaker, he knew this. The nutrient drips would only go so far, he hoped, although Scott knew they would keep them alive at the very least. He was gambling that they wouldn’t “waste” good nutrients on him, but he knew it was a big risk.

Sleep wasn’t easy now. All his aches and pains were far more pronounced, and a bone-tiredness was seeping into him. All he wanted to do was sleep but it didn’t come. On occasion he drifted but that was about it.

Sometimes he dreamed his father was there beside him, a hand on his arm and warm breath on the side of his face. He never spoke but when Scott was at his lowest the hallucination brought him comfort.

And then one day the Major was back.

Fury was clear on his face as he took in Scott’s weaken condition. Scott thought back to the angry conversation the Generalobers had had with him and while his memory was very patchy now he could see that if anything prevented the Generalobers from getting what he wanted it would be the Major that would be held accountable.

Scott looked the Major dead in the eye and laughed.

He laughed weakly, but he laughed and laughed and laughed until he was choking on dryness and the observation machines were screaming.

The last thing he was conscious of was that fleeting glimmer of a smile on Koch’s face.

When Scott woke up it was different. He was no longer in his bed but was sat up in a chair, hands no longer cuffed.. In other circumstances it would have been called an easy chair, but Scott was anything but easy in it.

The Major stood before him and the three other officers who guarded him were either side of them. Interestingly enough Koch wasn’t there, and Scott wondered why that was the case…

‘You will be fit to face trial, Oberleutenant.’

But Scott just stared at him. He didn’t have the energy to argue and he knew it would be pointless anyway. The Major would do whatever he wanted to – he always had – and all Scott could do was steel himself mentally for what was about to happen.

So far the medical team had tried their hardest to persuade him to eat verbally but, other than not remove his nutritional drip, had done nothing else. The leer on the Major’s face told Scott that that was about to change.

‘The Generaloberst wants you fit to stand trial and I will make sure you are. Hold him.’

The three men moved, one for each arm and the last one moved behind Scott, hooking one arm around Scott’s throat and forcing his head back a little and holding it in place. Scott was powerless to stop them, and all he could do was watch with wide eyes as the Major strode across the room and picked something up off the table.

It was a pipe. And a funnel.

Scott struggled hard but was held tightly, handholds so tight they would leave livid bruising. The Major grabbed his cheeks and squeezed hard until Scott had no choice but to open his mouth. He choked hard as the pipe was forced down his throat.

It wasn’t a long procedure but if felt to Scott that it had taken forever, and his throat was raw and hurting, like he’d swallowed glass. He gagged several times but nothing he did made them stop.

The Major hadn’t finished, though. Without letting go of his cheeks, the man fit the funnel onto the end of the pipe and poured a pale creamy liquid through. Scott could feel the coldness as the liquid went down. Eventually the whole bottle was emptied. His stomach rebelled and he tried to throw up again but the tube wasn’t allowing that to happen.

But it wasn’t quite over yet.

The man still stood over Scott and his leer turned into a wide smirk. And while Scott knew what was coming he also knew he had no way to stop or brace against it.

The tube was roughly yanked from him and Scott coughed, bringing up bile, blood and some of whatever that fluid had been. He watched through tears as the tube was thrown into the clinical waste bin.

He was still coughing and retching when his room door flew open and Stabshauptmannn Koch stormed in, fury clear on her face.

‘What is going on here?’ ‘Nothing you need to worry about, Stabshauptmannn Koch.’ ‘Nothing? Look at the state of the prisoner! This is not what Generaloberst Koch wants! Fit to stand trial, Major. I will be having words.’

She took in the position of the three men still around Scott and her frown deepened.

‘Gentlemen, you are all to leave this room and not return. Oberleutenant Tracy is now under my direct protection.’ ‘You cannot do that, Generaloberst left him under my command.’

Koch drew herself up. Absentmindedly Scott noticed that she was a tall woman, almost as tall as the Major and in no way was she intimidated by him.

‘You forget yourself, Major. I outrank you and I assure you that Generaloberst Koch will not be impressed at your treatment. You are undermining his plans. Now go.’

With a vicious look that promised retribution the Major and his men left, leaving Scott to slide off the chair now that his support had gone. Koch hit the emergency bell and medical staff came running.

She watched as the medics swarmed over Tracy, getting him back onto the bed and then rushing him off for scans to check for any damage the forcing of the tube down his throat and then ripping it out again. Koch kept pace with them until they refused her entry. So she took a stance against the wall and reluctantly made the call.

‘Ja?’ ‘Da ich bin.’ ‘Bericht.’ ‘Der Major ist ein Idiot. Tracy wird nicht gehorchen. Der Plan wird nicht funktionieren.’ ‘Schade. Finde dich damit ab.’ ‘Und Tracy?’ ‘Ich habe gesagt: Find dich damit ab.’

He didn’t wait for her reply, and Koch pondered how she was going to “deal with it” in a way that wouldn’t bring repercussions onto them. She stayed there, thinking, until the doors opened and a now-sedated Scott was wheeled back into his room.

The Doctor’s report was scathing about what had happened but ultimately – and miraculously – no permanent damaged had been done and with rest and more medical care Oberleutenant Tracy would be able to be discharged in around four days.

Four days wasn’t long, but she had a plan now. Koch settled in the chair beside her charge and carried on making phone calls. By the time the sun rose the next day all her plans were now in motion.

When Scott finally woke up the Stabshauptmannn was standing at ease where she always stood, with both Scott and the door in full view. He had a moment when he thought that the woman must have been standing there for days, but he drifted off before the thought could coalesce.

The next time he woke up his whole upper body felt like it had been scraped raw, which he supposed was actually what had happened. As he looked around he noticed Koch was missing but another woman with the same rank was standing at the foot of his bed.

When she noticed that he was awake she saluted him. Scott returned the gesture, albeit stiffly. She didn’t talk to him but stood to the side as the medics entered the room. The doctor stopped at his side and for the first time spoke to him. When Scott answered his voice was rough.

‘You will be sore for a little while, Oberleutenant Tracy, but you have suffered no lasting damage. No food for a few more days yet, but after that we want you to eat.’ ‘I made my stance clear.’

The Stabshauptmannn tutted but didn’t say anything more, ignoring the looks both men cast her.

‘I can only encourage you. You will heal better with real food once you can eat safely.’ ‘I understand. But this is not open for negotiation.’

The doctor paused and regarded him seriously.

‘I think you are an idiot. But…’

Scott nodded and reached over, giving the doctor’s arm a squeeze. It was the only thing he could think to do to reassure the man that he’d thought through what he was doing and didn’t hold the medic in any way to blame. It was only at this gesture that Scott realised he had not been recuffed to the bed.

‘Stabshauptmannn Koch has requested we get you ready for transport today.’

Slowly Scott sat up, frown clear. They were moving him? Panic seized him – they had promised that he needed to be fit for the trial, they wanted him at his best, and Scott was realistic about how awful he looked.

The obs machine started beeping and the doctor was talking to him but Scott couldn’t hear him. Vaguely he was aware that he was having a panic attack and he fought to get himself under control.

‘Calm yourself, Oberleutenant Tracy.’

Ah, Stabshauptmannn Koch was back. She stood at the bottom of his bed where he could see her, and her calm, matter-of-face tone helped him to ground himself.

When Scott was under control she asked the medics to leave and once it was just the three of them.

‘You are to be transferred, Oberleutenant. You have become…a problem. And I have been tasked with…dealing with you. Stabshauptmannn Kurschat will escort you. Goodbye, Oberleutenant Tracy, I hope we never meet again.’

She smartly saluted, executed a perfect military turn, and left.

Scott blinked, unable to process what she was saying. But the smirk on Kurschat’s face told him that he’d heard her correctly.

Within a couple of hours Scott – bed, obs machine and IVs all and still minus cuffs – was in an ambulance with a nurse, heading he did not know where. He took the time to rest as much as he could as he had no idea what would happen once he arrived, and he had plenty of experience of how Bereznik treated their prisoners.

It was several hours later and darkness had fallen when they arrived. Stabshauptmannn Kurschat stayed in the ambulance as he was wheeled out. In the darkness Scott didn’t get to see what kind of building he was being taken into but the smell of disinfectant told him that it was another hospital.

No one spoke as he was wheeled in. He was settled in a room, but weirdly his obs machine wasn’t plugged in.

In fact, they unplugged him completely, just left the IVs in. Confused, Scott stayed quiet. He might not understand what was going on, but there was just the slightest of chances that this was not an accident.

He feigned sleep for a couple of hours and was just on the verge of drifting off when his door was slowly and quietly opened. A man entered, covered in clothing that Scott knew by heart and for once in the last six months he felt an old emotion welling up.

As Kyrano smiled gently at him Scott felt hope for the first time since he’d been shot down…

fin

Translation by google (so sorry if it isn't right)