HYPERION

PART ONE

John cursed, finished tucking his shirt in and did up his fly.

The mayday was faint, but it was enough to crackle through the headset he wore habitually around Thunderbird Five as he attended to his duties. And even, as now, when he attended to more personal matters. He sealed the toilet and depressed the evacuate control, waited just a second for the vacuum pump to explode noisily into action and then subside, just as noisily, into silence.

There was a corresponding moment of silence in the headset, and then the mayday crackled through again, faint, and far away. At this strength the message was too distorted for him to recognise more than a few static-filled words – he would have to return to the comms centre and boost the signal if he hoped to decipher enough to understand. But to his practiced ears it was already clear it was an automated beacon. The question was… was it a genuine call for help, or a message kicking in from a long-abandoned space station or transport, floating unattended in orbit around the Earth.

John spared a moment to scratch himself as the message replayed faintly in his ears. His bet, if he were a betting man, which he wasn't, well … not usually. There were exceptions to every rule, and there were always occasions when one brother or another would do something stupid, and there was always cash to be had in that.

John sniffed, spared a fleeting gripe of irritation at the post-nasal drip that had plagued him since his last drop earthside, and returned his thoughts to the matter at hand. His bet was that it was one of NASA's abandoned transfer hulks, one of the myriad that were filling up the planet's ever-congesting orbit planes with junk, and filling Thunderbird Five's network with static and crap.

Scott glanced through the lounge window at the waning afternoon, looked back at Gordon, seated opposite, and proffered the guitar towards him. 'Here,' he said. 'Lesson over.'

Gordon looked at the guitar, looked at Scott, and left the instrument hanging in the air.

'C'mon.' The guitar hung suspended in Scott's outstretched hand. 'Take it.'

Gordon shook his head, his lips set in a firm line. 'The lesson aint over.'

'It's definitely over. There are callouses on my fingers.'

'Scott, we've discussed this. The callouses are the most important part – you need to cultivate those callouses if you ever want to play properly.'

Scott's lips set in a line that quite matched the determined line of his brother's. He stood the guitar on its end, the instrument's neck balanced lightly in the crook of his hand. 'The mistake you make is assuming I want to learn at all, let alone properly.'

Gordon puffed air through his lips in a display of exasperation. He scooped the guitar out of Scott's grip and laid the instrument across his lap. 'Then what have you been doing for the last fifteen years?'

'Exactly. Fifteen years. And I haven't got any better at it than when I started. It's time to give up.' Scott leant back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. 'I give up.'

Scott gave it up with such finality that Gordon was temporarily lost for words. 'But…' he said. And then again, 'but…'

'But nothin'.' The arms remained resolutely folded across Scott's chest, though the blue eyes loosed their grip on his brother and wandered aimlessly around the room. Behind the eyes Scott's mind also wandered. The only reason he'd picked up a guitar in the first place was when he figured out that girls liked guys in bands, and, like all teenage boys, Scott wanted to be the guy in the band. Unfortunately for Scott, it appeared that musical ability ran haphazardly through the Tracy family, and as first cab off the genetic rank it seemed to have forgotten him altogether – leaping bodily over him to get to Virgil, scrambling roughshod across John to Gordon, and god knows even Alan showed some talent whenever he sat down to plaster his hands across the piano.

In terms of the guitar, all Scott had managed between the ages of fifteen and seventeen were the most basic of chord progressions – nowhere near good enough to get him into a band, or to get him the girls – while Gordon seemed to have stumbled onto the instrument with a sensitivity that belied his youth, and hands that held the promise of greater things to come. All of which he'd given up for swimming and submarining.

'C'mon,' Gordon said, bringing Scott's gaze back into focus. 'You need to practice. You don't want a repeat of last Christmas, do – '

'Gordon.'

Gordon snorted. His greatest blessing in life was his perfect recall, and right now he was joyfully recalling Scott's lame-ass Christmas guitar solo.

Scott's arms and legs unfolded as he saw the smile widen across Gordon's face. He knew exactly what was going on inside Gordon's head, and he darted forward threateningly in the chair. 'So help me, Gordon – '

'Alright, alright!' Gordon's hands lifted in supplication. 'Jeez. You're such an old – '

John scooted his chair closer to the console and hunkered down to do what he liked to do best. Fingers recently kissed by sun and sea rested soft against the panel, tested the surface of the metal, felt for the faint thrum of Thunderbird Five's heart the way a safecracker feels for the falling tumblers of a combination lock. Satisfied, the fingers moved, isolated the signal, boosted the gain, estimated coordinates, distance, speed, trajectory, identified the call sign…

The call sign.

John's head lifted, eyes widening in disbelief.

The signal from John's portrait was a welcome relief, diverting Scott's attention just enough for Gordon to scramble out from under. Not that he'd ever been in any danger. Scott's raised fist was symbolic only, of what he'd like to do to Gordon, if he ever had half a chance. Oh yeah, if Gordon ever gave him half a chance…

'What is it, John?' Scott was all business as John's face appeared on the screen, his fist falling to his side a touch too slow to avoid a raised eyebrow from Thunderbird Five's monitor.

'A rescue?' Gordon traversed the short distance to his father's desk and settled himself on the couch opposite.

'No,' said John. 'At least, I don't think it's a rescue.'

'Which is it?' Scott's voice lost some of its urgency as he walked around the desk and sat down in his father's chair. 'Yes or no?'

'I think we need Father.'

Scott exhaled through his teeth, stood straight back up and toggled his father's intercom. 'Anybody else?'

'Maybe Brains.'

'Done.' Scott moved to the side of the desk and hitched himself into a half-sit on its edge. He fixed Gordon with a steely gaze. Later, he mouthed, and tried to keep the smile from his eyes as Gordon fixed an expression of utter bewilderment on his face and raised his shoulders in innocent confusion.

'This isn't over,' Scott muttered as a familiar step sounded in the doorway.

'What isn't over?'

Jeff's voice made Scott jump, made his head spin ninety degrees on his neck. How the hell does he do that?

Jeff ignored Scott's flummoxed expression and settled himself behind his desk, looking up sharply when he realised John's portrait was active. 'John,' he said, not waiting for Scott's response. 'Do we have an emergency?'

'I don't think so, Father.'

Jeff leant back in his chair. 'Well then… ' He glanced sideways as Brains joined them, pausing momentarily to wait for the young man to be seated. 'What's this about?'

John glanced down at his console, and then back at his father. 'At fourteen thirty-five today I picked up a signal from reference 3883 – '

Brains visibly started in his seat. 'That's, ah, half way to, ah, Mars.'

'Correction,' John said. 'It's half way from Mars. And heading in this direction.'

'What?'

'But nobody's gone to Mars,' Scott said. 'The Zero-X mission is still a year away – right now nobody has anything even capable of going to Mars.'

'Spectrum does,' said Brains. 'They've sent two expeditions to, ah, date, and both have, ah, returned.'

Jeff looked at Brains curiously, surprised he knew what Spectrum was up to when the rest of the world didn't. He would have to talk to him about his sources. Soon.

'It's not a Spectrum vehicle,' John said, pre-empting his father's question. 'And it wasn't going to Mars. It's...' He paused, as if he couldn't quite believe it himself. 'It's the Hyperion.'

There was a moment of silence in the lounge. And then –

'You're joking.' Scott slid from his perch on the desk. 'The Hyperion disappeared, what, five years ago – '

'Eight,' said Brains.

'Eight,' said Scott, 'and it was going to Venus. What the hell is it doing halfway to Mars?'

'Halfway from Mars,' John corrected.

'John, a-are you sure it's, the, ah, Hyperion?' Brains asked.

'It idents as Hyperion by its call sign.'

'You think it's a beacon?' Jeff asked.

'It seems so. I pinged a standard mayday response, but at that distance I don't expect a response for another twenty-four hours.'

'There won't be a response.' Gordon's comment fell like a stone into the room, made everybody turn to look.

'What?' he said, defensively. 'Surely the crew would be dead by now. Eight years is a long time out, when they were only supposed to be going for two. Their supplies would have run out years ago. And if they were going the wrong way…'

'I guess the question,' Jeff contemplated the mystery, 'is what happened? How did they end up so far off course?'

'The question,' Scott resumed his position on the edge of the desk, 'is are we going to do anything about it?'

'It wouldn't be a, ah, a rescue,' Brains said, giving voice to the obvious. 'It would be a salvage.'

'It would be history.' Jeff's gaze turned inward. He seemed to be struggling with an internal decision, weighing his thoughts, his options. 'John,' he said at last. ' Get onto NASA. Tell them what you've picked up.' He leant back in his chair, ran a hand distractedly along the edge of the desk. 'Ask them what they want us to do.'

It had taken forty minutes for John to make his way through the tiers of bureaucracy at NASA. Forty minutes punctuated by the standard 'you're calling from where?' Followed by the ever-charming 'how do we know you're who you say you are?' And then the drawn-out moment of silence when he stated the reason why he was calling, and what would NASA like International Rescue to do?

Three hours after that, after NASA had aimed their satellite network into the blank space between Earth and Mars, confirmed the transmission source and the call sign, three hours after they'd come to terms with the cold, hard truth of Hyperion's return and called him back on the secure frequency he'd set aside for the moment of decision, the reality was all too sobering.

'Bring our men home.'

It was only then that John felt the import of his discovery. Felt it hit him like a fist to the chest, leaving him hollow and numb and, strangely, ashamed. Until that moment Hyperion had been a hypothetical. Just another Marie Celeste, a ghost ship, haunting the nightmares of all travellers in space. A piece of metal lost in mystery, and so lost in time that the world barely registered that Hyperion had once had a crew, that two flesh-and-blood men had, light years before, disappeared into legend.

'Yes, sir,' John had said to Director Pederson, after his first words had failed him. 'We'll do our best to bring them home.' And he knew they would, too.

'I've, ah, already calculated best conditions for departure.' Brains looked down at the clipboard on his lap, more for diversion than for any need to see the information. 'Thursday, ah, evening, seventeen-hundred, should provide an optimum, a-atmospheric window.'

Jeff nodded. 'Scott. I want you and Alan to take Thunderbird Three and rendezvous with the Hyperion.'His gaze crossed the room, lingered on Virgil, then settled abruptly on Gordon. 'Gordon. You're in.'

'Yes, Father.' Gordon's voice betrayed none of his surprise at the unexpected selection.

'At best speed,' John continued from Thunderbird Five, 'you should intersect Hyperion's path in just under sixteen days.'

'Sixteen days?' said Gordon, the air of neutrality dropping from his face. 'One way?'

'Mars is at perihelion,' John said, 'which means it's at its closest approach to Earth this decade.'

'And don't forget,' Scott added, 'Hyperion is already halfway here.'

'A-and,' Brains said, 'Thunderbird Three is capable of, ah, faster speeds than anything else, ah, officially, that, ah, we know of.'

'What everybody is trying to say,' Alan continued the tirade that he knew would be prickling under Gordon's skin, 'is that sixteen days is incredibly fast considering the distances involved.'

Gordon leant back in his seat and ran a hand backwards through his hair. 'It's just…that's thirty-two days, total!'

'All going, ah, well,' Brains supplied.

Gordon shot Brains a dubious glance, then dropped his gaze to the floor and mumbled morosely, 'what the hell are we going to do cooped up in Thunderbird Three for thirty-two days?'

'How is this different to your tour of duty aboard the Manta?' Alan's voice was tinged with the faintest hint of sarcasm.

'Trust me,' Gordon said to the floor, 'it's gonna be different.'

'No sailors,' said Virgil, unexpectedly. And loudly.

Gordon's gaze slid to where Virgil lounged, limbs akimbo, on the settee. He ground his teeth together, eyelids narrowing as Alan erupted into peals of laughter.

Jeff stood beneath Thunderbird Three's entry port, watching as his sons finalised the loading of supplies into International Rescue's largest, most expensive, and most volatile craft. Sixteen days to Hyperion and sixteen days back necessitated eight weeks minimum supplies were inventoried and stowed, but it still didn't seem like enough. Jeff knew from harsh experience how quickly problems in space could spiral into disaster, and how fast supplies could run out. And he knew there was nobody out there capable of rescuing Thunderbird Three if it got into any trouble. It was a question that Jeff pondered every time his sons were on a rescue… an old saying that flitted into his head at the same time the butterflies started drumming their way through his insides: who will rescue the rescuers?

Jeff lips set in a hard line as he watched Scott trudge the last of the food supplies up the gantry and pause on the threshold as Virgil squeezed past him on his trip back down. The smell of rocket fuel wafted down from the giant engines. No doubt Alan was checking the intake valves, priming the ignition in preparation for launch. Jeff let the odour wash over him, visualised a snapshot of his youngest son at Three's console, felt the old feelings of prelaunch nerves stirring in his gut. His arms, his legs, the muscles of his stomach tightened as the long-forgotten buzz of adrenaline washed unexpectedly through him. Saliva flooded his mouth and he swallowed, hard, as his heart beat just that bit faster in his chest.

Virgil now stood at the bottom of the gantry, watching and waiting, arms resting on the metal fretwork and one foot poised on the braking system, ready to disengage and shove off. 'Dad,' he said.

Jeff turned to look at him.

'They'll be okay,' Virgil said. 'It's a simple mission. Straight there and straight back, remember.'

'I remember.'

Their eyes met, then quickly glanced away. It was the same every time, for those who stayed behind.

Jeff checked his watch and looked towards the top of the gantry. With the exception of himself and Virgil, the combined personnel of International Rescue was currently inside Thunderbird Three, checking and stowing and preparing. 'They should be – ' Jeff closed his mouth as Scott descended the gantry with short sharp steps.

'Almost ready for lift-off,' Scott announced. He landed on the hangar floor and turned a wry gaze back towards the open hatchway. 'Just waiting for Alan and Tin-Tin to say their goodbyes.'

Behind him, Virgil snorted. Scott's mouth crooked with amusement as he turned to look at him. 'I guess this is goodbye for all of us.' He proffered a hand towards his brother, his expression abruptly sober.

Virgil's hand met Scott's, firmly. 'Only for a month.'

Scott nodded, released his grip, and turned to look at his father. 'Dad.' He extended a hand. 'Why don't you come with?'

Jeff looked at him, startled. 'What?'

'You said it yourself. It'll be history.'

Jeff smiled. A shy smile. An awkward smile. The smile of a man who has been seen all the way through. He laughed, gently, and took the proffered hand. 'Good luck, son.' He dropped Scott's hand, suddenly afraid of the moment of farewell.

A commotion sounded from the interior of Thunderbird Three, followed by Alan's voice, shouting, and then Brains erupted awkward and red-faced through the access hatch and made his way down the gantry.

'Sounds like Alan and Tin-Tin's farewell has been well and truly interrupted,' Virgil grinned.

'Yes.' Brains landed on the deck and scuttled behind Jeff the way a crab scuttles behind a rock.

'Let me guess,' Jeff sighed. 'Gordon.'