Chapter Nine

Scott was flying; high, higher, up beyond anything blue he could remember into a haze of greyish-white. It wasn't clouds but he gave its substance no mind as he was, at last, one with his precious Thunderbird. Nothing else mattered. So much in one with his machine, in fact, that he couldn't tell where his rocket-plane began and he ended or vice versa.

He was soaring effortlessly above the dark, the rain, the devastation…until his higher cortex got curious. Why didn't he register the g-forces riveting his spine against his especially-designed seat? Why couldn't he feel his guts restrained by the small of his back? He was soaring effortlessly until he heard the voice.

I'm disappointed

He didn't need to hear much else. It was enough to send the systems in his Thunderbird into major malfunction. Thunderbird One went into free fall, nose down, spiralling straight back from where he'd come. He watched the planet Earth enlarge from a speck to a baseball to a basketball in terrifyingly rapid time.

I'm disappointed

He was going to crash, head first until by some freakish warp he was suddenly not looking down but up as his Thunderbird came straight for him, red nose tip smouldering. Just as he opened his mouth to protest, the machine morphed into a hand, a girl's arm, and, as he watched, the palm enlarged and threatened to pulverise him into the ground like the boot on the foot of a giant.

"Mr Tracy?"

The sound of a strange voice near his ear had him mentally scurrying for cover, snapping back in on himself like over-wound elastic.

Which nurse was going to humiliate him, now?

Then there was more light in his room and the head-end of his bed rose. He began to count backwards, inaudibly, to focus. Nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine, nine thousand nine hundred and —

"I'm Deirdre," she said. "We'll being seeing a lot of each other in the coming days. I've been appointed to take care of you and I specialise in orthopaedics so we'll work to get your arm functioning again. I'll let you call me Dee if you're civil." She paused in her introductions as if to wait for a response but when he didn't give one, she went on. "Oh, dear. You haven't touched your meal. Your grandmother got it especially. They told me you don't say much but you'll find I'm extremely persistent. What I want I usually get and what I want for you is to get well."

Scott allowed his eyes to slide open a fraction to locate this fresh avenue of torment. He had to rely on the nurses to do most things for him. His dominant arm was useless and his left was limited by the IV trailing from it. He'd rarely felt so helpless and he didn't like it.

Back to the real world, Tracy, and a whole new ball game.

He saw a compact female, about his age. He had to listen carefully to understand what she was saying as her accent was a mix of Australian and something else. She was the type of woman he may not give a second glance with her sparrow brown hair pulled back severely with pins but there was one thing he had learned from his years with International Rescue and even longer years raising four brothers and that was to distrust first appearances. Something in the way her unplucked eyebrows knit and her mouth disappeared into a grim line as she concentrated on her task warned him to take notice.

"Do I have your attention? This might interest you more." She undid the bandages, giving him a running commentary despite the fact he refused to look at it. "This apparatus looks bizarre but it's just to hold everything in place. More nerve grafts will be done later but I'm sure Dr Rossiter will explain it to you. Now, this other swelling and bruising around the sutures looks worse than it is. Quite normal. How about some simple exercises?"

That was a statement, not a question. She moved his fingers and he endured the pain in silence. He could see she was watching him. He discovered he could move his hand to some small degree, though sensation in it was tingling and poor.

"You know, pain is a good thing," she reassured him. "Have you ever seen leprosy, Mr Tracy?"

He knew what she was suggesting. They often received calls to underdeveloped countries. Millions of people around concrete construction with poor emergency services. They often filled in the gaps. He'd seen the devastating effects a lack of physical sensation produced.

"Will you see your family this afternoon? Your dad would like to know?"

His father? He's disappointed. Scott was disappointed in himself, too. Bitterly. But he knew only one way to survive. Containment. First rule of self-preservation. In this instance, the nurse was wrong; numbness would be his saviour, not his slayer.

He shook his head slowly.

"Shame. I understand your brother, Virgil, is worried about you." She indicated with her head to the door between the rooms. "He's been moved next door."

Scott frowned at her.

"Eye contact," she said. "That's an improvement."

"Virgil's next door? Why is he still here?"

"You'll have to ask him. You're going to be very, very sore, especially around your rib cage. You'll need to take care when you move."

"Virgil should be taken home. It's not safe. Tell my dad."

"You're in a secure unit. You don't need to worry about security. Why don't you tell him yourself?"

"Virgil must not stay here."

"You may be used to ordering a secretary about, Mr Tracy, but that won't happen here. No such luxuries. Now. I'll make a deal with you. You eat something and I'll find out about your brother. Okay?"

Scott closed his eyes. He knew what would happen if he did eat.

She held the bowl of rice and vegetables in front of him. "How long has it been since you've eaten?"

That was the wrong question to ask. It brought back involuntary images of the hellish week he'd had. He hadn't sat down to a Tracy meal for more than a week, surviving on specially-made energy bars and coffee, but there was only so much legal stimulants could do to keep an exhausted body on its feet.

His week had begun in a far-off Malaysia where a flood had wiped out a town. It was apparent early on this was recovery not rescue and only Thunderbird One had been launched. He'd stayed to organise the five days of clean-up and disposal of the dead as local resources were limited.

He'd gone straight from there to join his three brothers at a train wreck in a tunnel. He'd maintained radio contact with the victims trying to encourage them while his brothers tore through the mountainside in the Mole. It was to no avail. The victims succumbed to their injuries while Scott listened.

That last rescue had been a turning point. It was not their usual protocol to handle the dead but Scott felt more than obligated. Gordon was devastated to let go of the young boy's hand and betray the survivors' hope like that. There was no way to know whether they would've survived if he'd let Gordon secure that jack. Scott sincerely doubted it but it didn't make the decision any easier. He'd made a clear choice – the life of his brother for those five lives and in some convoluted sense it felt wrong of him to keep what was precious to him while the others were lost, yet he knew he wouldn't be able to choose differently.

As Scott did what he considered his duty, he was left with the realisation that he couldn't take much more of it without a break. The smell was the worst in any of these situations, particularly of those long dead. Of bloating, bursting corpses. It seemed to be absorbed into his mouth and into his nose. Everything tasted and smelt of earth and decay – and death.

Then the car accident. To damage an innocent bystander. To hurt one of his own brothers. He saw that hand. The girl's palm, tiny and pale, imprinted on the dark, rain-scarred glass of the windscreen.

He stared at the food bowl and began to retch.

At least that move got the food out of his sight. Deirdre dashed it aside as she rushed to help him. It was good he hadn't eaten. There was little to bring up but Scott heaved and heaved in an effort to get rid of that smell, to get rid of that horrible sensation of drowning in lives they couldn't save.

"Sorry."

"That's okay." She held a towel in front of his face. He trembled from the exertion and pain as she wiped the sweat from his face. "Are you drug or alcohol dependent, Mr Tracy? We need to know if you are. You may be going into withdrawal."

He gritted his teeth. "No."

"There was alcohol in your system when you were admitted. It's not an accusation."

"No." Scott pressed his face into the pillow to stifle the sound of his distress. "They can't see me like this. They can't."


"Brains!" Alan yelled. "Will you look at this?"

Brains came over to Alan's computer on the dining room table back at Tracy Corp.

Alan punched a button on his com-watch. "Alan to John. Where the hell are you?"

John answered immediately, sounding breathless, though he sounded so strange Alan didn't catch what he said.

"You won't believe what happened," Alan said as he heard the slam of the penthouse door behind him.

John jogged into the room and sprawled onto the back of a chair as he caught his breath. "My picture's on the internet. Right?"

"Ye-up."

John covered his face with his hands and moaned.

"I can see –uh- why Microtech had this individual –uh- in their employ," Brains said. "He is very good."

"We're not here to appreciate his handiwork," Alan said. "We have to find a way to stop him."

"Oh, I doubt you'll do –uh- that."

"You're not admitting defeat, are you?"

"Oh, no Alan. It's a –uh- question of how far do we go. I could disable his –uh- operating system but he would only have –uh- to start up again with a different one. He's not –uh- actually attacking our attempts to block him. He could –uh- attempt to destroy us in return but I haven't seen –uh- any hint of that. No direct threat has been made –uh- against us."

As they the watched the website display for a minute, more pictures of the family appeared.

"There's me. When I won Parola Sands. And Gordo when he won his gold medal. Now, he's cheating. Virgil when he was at college? That's ancient. No-one will recognise that! Look. He says he's got proof we're members of International Rescue."

"And Tracy Corporation will release a statement refuting it, tomorrow." Their father's deep gravelly voice behind them startled them. "Brains is right. It's a question of how far we go. We're being provoked. They accuse us and if we take it up we make their accusation come true."

"But he's accusing Tracy Corporation of heavy-handed tactics. Of him being followed and harassed, his premises being watched."

"Well, aren't we?" John drawled from the corner of his mouth.

"We've got the com-watch back without harm. That's what matters," Jeff said. "Any more information about this fellow's background? We must know who he is."

John picked up a sheet of paper to his left. "Martin James Langley. Born in England. Son of a Tory politician, when Great Britain had such a party. Mother died when he was young and he lived with his aunt. Fairly conservative background. Formal education in Europe before taking up a high-flying role with computer hardware giant Microtech, Seattle. Left there under a cloud, disagreeing with their company politics apparently. A crisis of conscience, so says his website. Then formed this green group. That's it, so far."

"So, what do we do with this joker?" Alan said.

"We wait for him to make a direct threat," his father said.

"You think he will?"

"I'll bet International Rescue on it."


"See that, Gordon?" Hubert enthused, tears immediately in his eyes. "She moved. She moved. Her fingers. You try."

Gordon had just returned to the ICU to give Amber's father a break from the bedside vigil. He'd been in and out of ICU all day and the thought that Amber might be rousing sent a little thrill through him. He sat down in the chair Hubert vacated and took hold of the tiny, white fingers.

"Hey, Amber," Gordon said to the apparition in the bed in front of him. In ICU, the machines and life-support systems made any human appear less than lifelike. "I'm Gordon. I'm your new friend, remember, do I get a squeeze, too?"

They both watched anxiously for a response. Gordon wasn't sure he did feel pressure on his hand other than the reflexive response of the unconscious but the joy on Hubert's face was too much to disappoint.

"You know, maybe I did feel something, Mr Kreuzer."

Hubert patted him firmly on the shoulder, which Gordon regretted but smiled through it. He spoke to his daughter then hurried outside for a short break. Gordon sat staring at the figure in the bed. This beautiful young woman would not be the same. Long, dark hair, translucent skin. A fragile, perfect creation broken in more places than he could recite, and he held the hand that he saw in his night hours.

Poor Scott if he ever sees her.

They say that people in a coma have some awareness. He couldn't remember a great deal directly after his own accident. Weeks of his life were a blank but the knowledge that his family had never given up on him was something he treasured. He wouldn't give up on Amber, either. He talked softly to her until her father returned when Gordon had to make his apologies.

Hubert leapt at him, embracing him. "How can I thank. For saving her. For coming. You save me, too."

"Would it be okay if I came back tomorrow?"

The man cried into Gordon's shoulder as he nodded. "Any day. Every day."

Gordon trudged from ICU and went to look for his brothers. Even the short distance up a couple of storeys was a harrowing one. Everyone was talking about International Rescue. Where were they? Why had they abandoned the world? Why had they vanished without word? The paper's headline asked the question on everyone's lips:

WHERE'S INTERNATIONAL RESCUE?


It took Virgil less than ninety seconds to undo the lock between his room and Scott's. He paused a moment to thank Parker for his dexterity with these devices and his willingness to pass on his dubious skills.

Virgil shuffled in, wrapping a gown around his silk pyjamas, acutely tender around the midriff. The light was turned down and Scott was on his side, actually asleep. Virgil saw the strategically placed towels and dish.

"Oh, Scotty. Not again."

He listened to his brother's rhythmic breathing. It was the first time he'd seen Scott relaxed in a long time. He shifted a chair to sit near him and sat down to watch.

Scott roused slightly. "Mom?"

"I wish, I wish."

"Virg?"

"Here, buddy. Go back to sleep." Virgil took up his hand. Scott tried to pull away as he struggled to open his eyes and look around in sudden anxiety but Virgil held on.

"News?"

"Relax, relax. Everything's headed in the right direction. Don't worry."

"You need to…go."

"Not going anyplace. Go back to sleep, I'll watch over you."

"But—"

"Sleep."

Scott closed his eyes and did go back to sleep. Virgil watched over him, almost nodding off with him. The door opening, however, woke him. The nurse came in then stopped short when she saw him and glanced at the door to the adjoining rooms.

"The lock's broken," he whispered to alleviate her worried look.

"What do you know, sleeping at last," she whispered back as she looked down at her patient.

"What did you do? Down him with a piece of four by two?"

"Just about had to call the vet in here. I think we used enough to knock out a horse."

Virgil grinned. "Well, he can be as stubborn as their closest relative."

"He's almost smiling."

"He can do that quite well."

"He only glares at me."

"He hates this." Virgil motioned around him.

"Does this regularly, does he?"

"No – more than the rest of us," Virgil said self-consciously moving his hand away from Scott's when he saw her looking.

"You seem – um – close," Deirdre said. "Does he have any problems we should know about? Don't take offence but high profile people often have substance abuse issues. He's showing the classic signs."

"I see he's throwing up again."

"That's right. Severely. He's also shivery and agitated. Does this happen often?"

"Only when things get too much for him. It means he's reached his limit. It doesn't mean he's drug dependent. It means he works too hard."

"What exactly do you do, if you don't mind me asking? I guess you work for Tracy Corporation."

"We're in research and development. We're pilots. We test and operate new equipment."

"Well, you both don't look like you have desk jobs."

Virgil grinned. "We work outdoors a lot."

"What are you working on that's causing your brother so much grief?"

"You don't think seriously injuring a pedestrian is stress enough?" Virgil said trying to avoid the question.

"Why do I get the impression this was an accident waiting to happen?"

Virgil couldn't look at her. "Sorry, I can't talk about what we do exactly or what we work on. Industry secrets."

"I suppose one multi-national is just like any other with their secrets," she said and sighed. "Look, if there's anything that might help him, let's know, okay?"

"The biggest way to help is to not make judgements about what you see and decisions about what he doesn't say."

Deirdre looked askance at him. "That's very cryptic, Mr Tracy."


By the time Gordon passed through security and reached Virgil's room, he was ready to hit the sack. He'd had an intense day in ICU and he was glad to visit his brother. He carried with him that deep-seated ache painkillers couldn't reach. He'd spent the day remembering…remembering what it was like to be so helpless, so broken; watching as death teetered above as tangibly as the slab of concrete that had wrenched life from his fingers and as unpredictably as the whim of a kidnapper's next blow.

He remembered it all. And, moreover, he understood – not in a textbook knowledge of understanding – but knowing from those depths of personal experience. During intense times like these, he could often fall back on his humour to survive, his 'bag of tricks' as his brothers called them. He saw this tendency as something he practiced, more along the lines of a physician – jokes to revive a spirit, a shot of laughter to boost morale. Only right now, he seemed to have misplaced the whole damn kit.

He knocked on his brother's door and went in. "Virg?"

The bed was unoccupied, though he saw that the adjoining door to Scott's room was open. It was quiet in Scott's room except for Virgil whispering to a woman, who he presumed was a nurse. He curled up on Virgil's bed, intending only to take a nap.

He woke sometime later to find someone touching his sore shoulder. Gordon sat up, his eyes wide with guilt. "I'm Gordon. I was waiting for Virgil to come back. I'm his younger brother," he explained in a rush.

"Oh, you're Gordon," she said. "I'm Deirdre. I've heard you're a walking wonder. Apparently your scans are impressive. The emergency nurses were talking about it, how you survived such a horrific accident."

"Yes, ma'am," Gordon agreed as he felt a tinge of heat creep into his cheeks. "Thank you, ma'am."

She laughed softly. "What do you do? Are you a pilot, too?"

"No. Well, yes, I am but I'm an aquanaut first. I'm a diver and oceanographer. I love the water. I work in research and development."

"Oh, so you work with your brothers. You know something. I love the water. You can call me Dee."

"Thank you, ma'am."

The main door to Virgil's room came inward.

"Don't take that cute, bashful teddy bear look too seriously, Miss," John said as he strode into the room, both hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. "He's a real shark underneath."

John stopped to call for Alan out the door and Alan came in panting.

"Gordo. We looked all over. Dad's doing a piston with worry."

John nodded to the lock on the door that adjoined the rooms. "Mission accomplished."

"Virgil said the lock was broken," Deirdre said.

John grinned. "Certainly is now."

"So, I'm talking to more brothers?"

"We, unfortunately, do share the same surname," John quipped. "Where the resemblance stops is pure conjecture."

"How many of you are there?"

"Grandma says we must be an innumerable horde by the looks of the table after we've eaten," Alan said.

"I could believe it. I've got three brothers. So, you work for Tracy Corp? Don't tell me. Let me guess. Research and development. Right? So, is it sky or sea? Pilots or aquanauts?"

"What do you think? Is this gal quick or what?" John said to Alan using one of his voice impersonations.

"For us. Neither," Alan said. "We do those but we're the out-of-this-world type of guys. We reach far beyond where no man – or woman – has ever gone before."

John nudged him. "I'm an astronomer and this here kid is a race driver who thinks he can shoot for the stars. An ego thing, I think."

Deirdre laughed. "Oh, you blokes are too much."

"That's what Dad says – though not as nicely as that," Alan said.

"Gordon!" John barked. "Before you go back bye-byes. Any news?"

Gordon startled awake at his name being called.

"How's Amber?" John said.

"Yes, how is she?" Deirdre asked.

Gordon shifted his focus to the nurse. "You know her?"

"Actually, I'm not sure. I've heard her name somewhere before. I think she lives in the airport precinct. I do, too. We may have met. I've been trying to place her."

"You don't live in that trendy up-market green redevelopment, do you?" John said a trifle sharply. "You're not one of those radicals? From what we've seen the place is alive with alternates big on biofuels and recycling or some such."

"About the only radical thing I do is volunteer for World Aid Services every summer. Medical work in India and Africa. Not too radical for you, is it? What's Tracy Corporation doing in that area? Now, that's hardly radical. A huge multinational conglomerate into new fuel technologies and billion-dollar government contracts could hardly fit the radical mould, could it?"

"We do actually have our moments," John said.

Deirdre squared up to John. "Like when? Give me an example."

"Believe me, we know how to get our hands dirty," John bit back. "We contribute."

"Er – Deirdre? Ma'am? How's Scott?" Gordon asked, cutting straight across what he could see was going to be a serious clash.

The nurse turned back to Gordon. "Thanks for reminding me. I came to get a spare blanket. He hasn't been well. He's asleep now but his temperature's way up. It's probably his arm."

"Can we see him?" Alan said.

"If you could wait until tomorrow, that would be better. I need to get Virgil out of there. He's been up too long. I think Mr Tracy should be left asleep."

"Okay, Miss World Aid. Tomorrow," John snapped.

"It's Ms Stewart to you."


"John?" Alan said. "What are you doing?"

Later in the Tracy penthouse, John tapped faster on his keyboard. "I don't like that Stewart woman. I'm doing a search."

"No kidding. What was that about? You changed all of a sudden."

John stopped work and leaned on his hand. "I don't know. Something about the way she—"

"Moves?"

"I was going to say speaks. I am the language expert, after all. And if you make one wise crack about me hearing voices, I'll deck you."

Alan held up both hands in surrender.

Gordon stormed into the dining room flapping a piece of paper. "John?"

John sighed. "Sometimes I hate that name."

"What is this?" Gordon slapped the paper right across his keyboard. "It's from Ned Cook. Someone used his identity and he just got burned for accessing an unauthorised area. He's pissed off big time. Did you?"

"Guilty, your Honour."

"But Ned and I have an agreement. He trusted me with that information. He does favours for IR."

"So sue me. Sorry but I'm only following orders."

Gordon turned to his father, aghast.

"John's doing what he was asked to do, son."

"But that's not right."

"Steady Gordon, you'll blow something," Alan said to one side.

"I'll talk to Cook about it," Jeff said. "Apologise. Cook didn't respond to John's attempts to contact him. John's registered his protest to me. There's no time, Gordon. This could mean the life of your brother, not to mention International Rescue."

"It's still not right," Gordon repeated, looked like he waited for a show of support from the others but, when none was forthcoming, he stalked out.

"Gordon. Get back here," his father bellowed. "We're about to have a meeting. Come together, everyone, we've got things to discuss. Alan, get your brother."

Alan groaned. "He won't come, now." He trotted to the bedroom and came back alone. "He's gone to bed."

"Well. That might be a good thing," Jeff said. "Fill him in tomorrow. Brains, make sure Gordon does sleep. Then we can all get some rest. We're feeling the strain."

"Yes, Mr Tracy."

"Okay. No further threats from the People's group. Our agents on the ground are monitoring the situation there and all appears quiet. John's little escapade may have cost us but not too much. Tracy Corporation will continue to deny any connection with International Rescue. As you noticed, there have been reporters round the building today. Stay clear. As of now, you boys are to stay off the streets. Penelope is monitoring the media coverage for us so we don't have to watch the International Rescue debacle ourselves.

"I don't like the Thunderbirds away from base. It's time we took care of that loose end. A group of us will go back to base tomorrow and clear the runway. There was a heck of a lot of debris. We concentrate on those areas we need to clear to get those birds down. Alan will come with me in Thunderbird One. Brains and Tin-Tin in Tracy Jet Three. If we get an early start we could be back by dark.

"John, I want you at the hospital. Check everyone who comes near Virgil and Scott. Gordon will continue with Amber and Hubert, though I want him to check in on the boys. Tell him. We'll be as quick as we can. That's our day tomorrow. Get some sleep, even if you have to see Brains. Right. Any questions?"

There were none.

"Dismissed. Long day ahead of us, tomorrow."