Chapter 9: Icy Fronts
John waited with everlasting patience for a reply, the soft static emitting from the communications speaker not counted. Alan drummed the console, while Scott peered over their shoulders, using his height to full advantage. When the reply eventually came, only Alan jolted in recognition.
"Well…you're not goin... -lieve me when... this, but…"
"Wait a minute…" Alan muttered, matching the voice with the man's he had spoken to earlier. Checking the source location of the call, he leaned in close to John's ear and confirmed, "That's him! That's the guy who contacted us earlier."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive. The call's been traced close to the same area. It's him, I'm certain!" He glanced at John then Scott, taking in their expressions. John's face held a smidgen of worry, whilst Scott's held more of a neutral quality. Alan wasn't sure how to read the face of his oldest brother – in fact he was sure he had never seen such an expression on Scott before.
"Talk to him, John. Dad wants to know who this guy is," Alan nudged. "Scott, make sure this is being recorded," he advised his older brother. Scott turned to another console and began tapping keys.
Turning back to the microphone, John cleared his throat to make it sound as professional and authoritative as possible. "Sir, may I ask the reason for your call?"
There was a short silence in answer, leaving both blonde men waiting tensely for what was to follow in reply. When the words eventually sounded they were the last they had imagined to hear.
"John? John, you have... - sten to me. The man... be Scott Tracy… he isn't. Damn it... sounds so crazy... true!"
Neither man knew what to say, how to react. Fortunately Scott solved that problem as he pushed his way between his brothers and assumed position over the microphone, his attention focused on the equipment in front of him.
"... rescue in Can-... – someth-... ed there and... I switched –"
Scott tensed, his eyes widening in horror at the voice. John and Alan didn't see, but they sensed his body stiffen between them. Scott's hand was quick to cut off the incomprehensible ramblings with the punch of a button, interrupting before any words had a chance to register.
"Who is this?" Scott snapped defensively, his body taut with anger and fear all blended with a pinch of mystery. Alan felt the smallest tinge of relief that Scott had assumed control, certain his brother would know what to do.
Another pregnant silence filled the air waves, only this time it was a silence of disbelief. Scott's breath came in gulps as nerves prickled in tension. He nervously kept licking his lips, trying to hide the action as the others stood by.
"You…" The single word was spoken with such a low, venomous growl it was almost primal. "You bast-... what the hell –"
::x:x::xx::xXx::xx::x:x::
"You bast-... what the hell –"
"Don't you dare threaten me," the Hood snarled, equalling in threat that what had been spat at him from the communications console. He hadn't recognised the voice at first, due to the signal's weakness and the static coating its mellow tone. But as soon as the name 'Scott Tracy' had been spoken a mental sledgehammer had smacked him full force with the identity.
It was his own voice – his body's voice that now contained the essence of the eldest Tracy son.
Anxiousness sparked in his mind, jolting him forward towards the console to listen with intent. He could not be hearing that voice, he could not! His guards were supposed to have his prisoner tightly secured in the cabin he had specially vacated.
Obviously he had entrusted the task to a pair of idiots. Trained monkeys could have done a better job, the Hood growled to himself.
"I swear to God... -ve hurt them…"
Inwardly the Hood gleamed in pure delight. Hearing the alarm in Scott's – his – voice gave him a sense of immense power. Yes, Scott. I am here with two of your brothers.
He could hold Scott's entire family hostage, and there wasn't a thing Scott could do to stop him.
Remember Scott – one false move on your part and I shall take more than your body.
"Hurt who? We have no idea what you are talking about." Belah was taking no chances. He needed to call Scott's bluff – strengthen the bond and belief between himself and the two Tracy brothers standing by him.
"You know ex... I'm talking about! ... took ov... my body... get at International Rescue! You knocked... tied me up! If you... as one finge... my brothers your spirit... body left to... turn to!"
At first Belah had no idea how to respond. But then Alan provided the answer. With a snort Alan held up a hand to his mouth to stifle his laughter.
"Took over his body?! Finger a brother? Oh my God – that must be the weirdest thing I've heard in ages!" The snigger increased. John simply kept his eyes trained on the older man's reaction.
Gradually a smile grew on Belah's face. Of course! He only needed to utilise the absurdity of the claims for them to be dismissed. It was all reverse psychology.
"I took over your body? Well, that's a new one on me." Alan's snigger almost burst into a full-blown guffaw at Belah's statement, spitting all over the console.
The voice at the other end of the radio took on a pleading tone, trying to penetrate through the laughter. "John, please... got t... me! ...ot me, John! ... not me!"
Hearing such begging brought a full-blown grin to Belah's borrowed features. If only the Tracys realised they were laughing at their own brother.
The Hood glanced at Alan to find him in near hysterics. He glanced at John on his other side, and found the young man in serious thought.
Seeing such a humourless expression, the Hood's smile withdrew. He was afraid this brother was beginning to see through his disguise.
Alan stepped forward, eager to add his contribution. "I don't think it's International Rescue you want, pal. More like a psychiatrist!" Alan's cheeks were beginning to glow pink with giddiness.
"Alan, calm down," John chastised, wishing his younger brother would quieten for a moment. He knew it was their organisation's integrity Alan was placing at precarious risk. They had to maintain a professional manner at all times.
Taking command of communications Belah addressed the mystery caller once again. "Look, I don't know who you are or what it is you want, but I suggest you don't contact us again, or else there will be serious implications for everyone involved." His tone was sharp and to the point, his warning painfully clear.
Alan stifled back a last snigger, swallowed the last of his glee, then wandered over to the far side of the communications centre to check the readings on another computer, leaving his older brothers to finish the conversation.
Belah was about to disconnect the call when the caller gave a sudden final attempt to reach to them. "Nine, two, twenty-twelve! Ask... John. Tell them... means to us... prove yoursel... son of a –"
Belah quickly cut the statement short, the demand unnerving him. He didn't want to answer that particular question. But from the look on John's face, that may well be what he would have to do.
"I'm going to report this to Dad straight away."
John turned towards the computer and began to enter some commands, but Belah quickly grabbed his arm, stopping him. John glanced quickly back at his brother, confusion in his eyes. "Scott?"
The Hood panicked, afraid that reporting the call would arouse suspicion, especially since it was the second call to be received that day of a similar nature and from the same location. Belah didn't know how Scott had managed to escape his captors, but with his prisoner now free he didn't want to risk the chance of his real identity being discovered. Though for now, Scott was trapped in Canada with no transport and poor communication, and his brothers simply thought of him as a madman.
With a calm control, Belah smiled with as much conviction as he could. "I'll alert Dad when we get back home. Leave it to me."
Belah stared directly into John's blue irises. He slipped his hand into his pocket and took hold of the small copper treasure hidden within. His power from the bracelet – only a small fraction of the power he would normally have at his disposal – began to stream through him into John's body just as it had with Gordon the night previous. John's eyes began to lose focus, the light-headedness making him unsteady on his feet.
Belah assured the astronaut again, this time with the aid of supernatural forces to empower his words. "You do not need to inform our father of the call. It will not be necessary."
"It won't… be… necessary…" John repeated with a sluggish tongue.
"The contents of the recording are no longer of importance. You need to only remember that the call was not a threat to International Rescue. That is all."
John's blank stare bore into the Hood's bright blue eyes. Eventually the blonde nodded his head, understanding his commands.
"Good." Belah released John's arm, satisfied his secret would be protected, for now.
He watched as John's mind gradually regained control. At first he gawped at the older man with confusion. His brother smiled, as though nothing had happened and he had been waiting for John to reply.
John shook his head.
"John? Are you all right?" Belah simulated concern through Scott's voice.
He blinked a few times and shook his head to rid the cobwebs that had formed. "Er… yeah. Yeah, sure, I er… think." He lifted a hand to his forehead, willing any recent memories to return.
Alan chose that moment to join his older brothers. He was very eager to leave the space station behind for another month. A look of concern spread across his face though, as he caught a glance of John's confusion.
"Johnny? You okay?" Alan asked, placing a comforting hand on John's arm. He paused before answering, not really sure how to describe the feeling.
He couldn't, so he waved off the concern. "Yeah, I'm fine, guys. I just faded out there for a moment. Er… What… What were you saying, Scott?"
"I said I'd tell Dad about the radio call today. We don't need to worry him unnecessarily." Belah pretended to study the older blonde brother, faking the concern he knew would be expected of him as the oldest. "You look as though you need some sleep, John."
"No, really, I'm all right. Look, you two had better be getting back home in case we're needed for a rescue call. We don't want to be caught out with two men down."
"Okay then, if you insist." Alan sighed, mocking disappointment as though he was being kicked out of a party early. He looked at John and a playful smile danced on his lips. "Better get the cargo unloaded then – your stash of marshmallows for the month making up half the crates, no doubt."
"Hey, I never complain about your Jell-o kicks, do I?" John played back, scoring a point in his favour. "Besides, how's a man to keep himself occupied up here without the sweet, heavenly taste of marshmallows?"
"What do you think video games are for?" Alan raised an eyebrow. "Slice of pizza in one hand, cigarette lit and ready – "
" – and avoiding Dad in the process..."
"Kicking zombie ass! I could play some right now."
The two brothers continued their banter, heading for the hatch to Thunderbird Three to unload the supplies. Belah watched them for a moment, then followed on behind as he scanned the impressive Thunderbird Five to absorb as much detail as possible. The sophisticated, state-of-the-art computer systems fascinated him. This technology was certainly specially made and not very easy to obtain. All the equipment had been expertly crafted to suit the requirements intended for its use, and all had been constructed with the finest eye for detail.
Three down, two to go, Belah noted to himself, crossing off Thunderbirds One, Three and Five from his mental list. Then, my friends, you shall be exposed for who you really are, and my deserved fortune will be mine to take at last.
::x:x::xx::xXx::xx::x:x::
Scott's anxiety levels had shot beyond the maximum. Hearing his own voice had been a scary experience to say the least. Coupled with the fact that it meant his kidnapper was up on Thunderbird Five with two of his brothers, Scott's iron nerves were melting under the heat of the tension.
To make the situation worse, the imposter had managed to twist the situation around, away from Scott's control. All seriousness had been sucked from Scott's words and thrown back at him with laughter, especially Alan. At that very thought Scott's anger blew at boiling point, released in part when he threw the radio down into the snow. Its landing was cushioned, but Scott took no notice.
"Damn it! You son of a bitch! When I get my hands on you you'll be sorry you ever heard the name 'Scott Tracy'!" he screamed into the wilderness.
The imposter's vehement promise reverberated in his head, replaying like a broken record over and over. "…I suggest you don't contact... else... serious implications... everyone involved."
The subtle meaning had been there, warning him to stay away. Deep down in his heart, Scott knew that wouldn't be possible.
Not while there was still life in his body.
As a last ditch attempt to try and prove himself, Scott had had a strike of a brainwave. Thinking of a fact only his family and friends would be aware of, he had blurted out, "Nine, two, twenty-twelve! Ask him – ask him John." Determination had spiked in his voice as it rose in volume and demand. "Tell them what that number means to us and prove yourself, you son of a bitch! I dare you!" But it had been useless, as the connection had been cut before he could even finish the sentence, and the threat.
John had been quiet through the exchange, leaving the imposter – or rather, who he thought to be the field commander, Scott sneered – to do most of the talking. Scott felt a slim glimmer of hope that the number he had blurted out would register a point with either of his brothers, or at least a small curiosity as to how a 'stranger' would know such a fact.
How a madman could possibly know their mother's date-of-birth.
Scott leaned forward and dropped to his knees, his head in his hands and a sigh of despair released from his lips. The weight of the chaos he was in bore down on his shoulders. The call to International Rescue's communications centre had been his last attempt, and he had blown it with style. There was nothing else he could do; no one he could contact, no living soul nearby to offer him a way to warn his family of the danger he could see so perfectly, but which lay blindingly under their eyes.
Gingerly he lifted a hand to run it through his hair, only to remember he had none.
For that split second, for that single moment in time and for the first time in his life, Scott was gripped by the void of loneliness.
And for a nanosecond, the thought of giving in flashed through his mind.
No. No, Scott, you can't let him win. He lifted his head and scanned the landscape ahead of him. But then, how do I stop him, stranded in the middle of nowhere?
Another defeated sigh escaped before he could stop it, only this time followed by a faint hum. Scott's head shot skyward, hearing the soft whisper of an engine. Immediately his senses were on full alert. He made haste to pocket the radio and withdraw the gun, outstretching it in front of him in his capable left hand.
Slowly Scott rose to a standing position, his hearing remaining focused on the hum close by. Bit by bit the humming grew louder, until he could distinguish the direction the sound was travelling in.
It was heading straight for him.
Suspicious that it was the wrong people looking for him, he ran for the safety of the trees. A few moments later the sound of a whirring engine approached his position.
His eyes widened as the sound became recognisable. Looking towards the open horizon from where he had been previously knelt, Scott recognised the outline of the object crossing the horizon.
The reflective surface of the aircraft split the sunlight into its separate colourful elements. Its white exterior blended with the greyness of the skies through which it soared with little effort. Imposing and grand, like a falcon flying high above the earth.
Scott watched with fascination as the craft neared his position, then whizzed low overhead, passing the trees in a blur. He felt the pangs in his heart, calling out to his own 'bird at home. The despaired look returned to his face again as he continued to watch the plane disappear past the trees.
Funny, he thought, that plane was flying extremely close to the tree line. Planes only fly that low when they're coming in to land…
Like the speed of a bolt of lightning Scott scrambled through the patch of dense forest, up the small slope towards the rocky edge of the hill. Breaking through the tree line, he stood tall to scan the horizon. He shielded his gaze from the blaring sunlight, and eventually his searching eyes rested on the small outline of the aircraft once again.
The descending aircraft.
That could mean only one thing – there had to be an airfield nearby.
His body filled with an adrenaline-fuelled excitement, reaching a level unlike he felt since he was a child at Christmas. At last there appeared to be a light at the end of the tunnel; a spark of genuine hope to resolve his crisis.
Watching the plane disappear behind a small outcrop of trees, he knew he had to be close to the airfield. It would be quite a walk yet, but there was a chance for him to escape this God-forsaken terrain.
With renewed energy and an even brighter hope Scott began the descent down yet another slippery slope, only this time not running in fear for his life. That fact didn't slow him down at all however, as eager he was to leave behind this desolate and bleak place he had been in for what felt like eternity. He hurried on to head in the direction he had seen the plane fly. It was a sign, it had to be.
Various questions raced through his head, such as what he was going to do once he arrived at the airfield. He couldn't simply sign his name and hire a plane for the day. Apart from the obvious lack of money or credentials, he knew all the planes would be privately owned.
No, there was only one possible solution he could think of as he pushed onward through the thick snow-laden terrain. He would have to hijack – or rather, borrow – a plane. For now the thought was thrown to the back of his mind. He would deal with that problem later.
::x:x::xx::xXx::xx::x:x::
Their set-up had been simple: form a chain, and pass along the parcels of supplies. Alan was in Thunderbird Three passing each parcel to Scott, who in turn passed them to John. A tidy mountain formation was being formed from the piles of boxes and crates containing all of John's food rations and countless other items he would need for the month-long shift. Not to mention the various early Christmas presents from his family, though that special day was just over three weeks away.
Brains had been working to modify Braman to a level where he would be more than capable of relieving the Tracy brothers of their space duties during the festive season, at least. None of them liked to spend Christmas away from family, but their sense of duty quelled any complaints. For now Braman wasn't completely compatible with the station's computer software, nor was he fully capable of judging serious distress calls from those that took lower priority. Human judgement was still preferred to prevail for such calls.
John gave a heartfelt sigh. He knew this year was his turn to miss the family gathering. All the brothers had opted to rotate, taking it in turns as to who missed Christmas day and who missed Thanksgiving. The turkey had been sublime to his taste buds, John recalled whilst subconsciously licking his lips.
With the last of the crates manoeuvred onto Five, the three brothers headed back into the main communications room to check for any messages. There were none.
"Well, looks like it might be a quiet afternoon for you, John." Alan mused aloud, watching the panels on the console remain inactive.
"Fingers crossed, it might stay this way for a few days." Though John knew, deep down, that would be hoping for a small miracle.
Alan moved away to join Scott, seeking conversation there instead. John was relieved for the peaceful respite in a small way. He felt a knot twist in his gut; a feeling he couldn't place but knew wasn't intending to unravel any time soon. Had there just been a distress call? Had something occurred that he couldn't recall? The nagging feeling refused to dispel, leaving him to scratch his head in wonder.
Absently his ears tuned into the sound of Alan's voice over by the digital recorder. Alan didn't always find it easy to talk to Scott, with the nine-year age gap between them and the view that Scott was almost the mirror image of their father. He was another authority figure, who Alan – and Gordon, to a point – preferred to avoid upsetting, like cats avoided water.
Alan was busy at a computer, typing on some commands on the console. Scott watched curiously over his brother's shoulder. "What're you doing?"
"I'm downloading a copy of the file to Tracy Island's server. Dad's going to want to hear this and possibly have it analysed."
Scott's face blanched, though Alan never noticed. For a few moments there was a brief pause between the two – neither willing to start a new topic of conversation. Uncomfortable with the ever expanding silence, Alan sought to compound it with a question. "What did Mom's birth date have to do with anything, Scott?"
"What?" The word was blurted out too hastily and too suspiciously.
"The call we got. He mentioned something about Mom's birth date, you know, being 2nd September. What was that all about? And how did he know about it?"
Scott nodded as the recollection of the conversation resurfaced. "That's a good question, Alan. How did he know? Dad definitely should hear about this, and I'll be the one to tell him." Scott nudged Alan away from the console, gesturing for him to take over command. Alan shrugged, not objecting to the order.
John overheard though, frowning in part as to why Scott was so adamant that he, and he alone, inform their father of the call. And why not immediately.
That gnawing twist in his gut returned, tighter than ever, squeezing every ounce of confidence out of him. It was strangling his logical thoughts.
Behind him, Alan and Scott stepped through the hatch, heading to the private quarters. Hearing the hiss of the mechanism closing, John seized the opportunity and swivelled himself around to the console connecting Five with Base. A few taps later, and he had established a connection with the people who could understand his dilemma the best.
::x:x::xx::xXx::xx::x:x::
Back on Base, everything was as routine as could be. Grandma was busying herself in the kitchen, baking her legendary pies and cookies. Tin-Tin was acting as secretary to Jeff as he dictated his important letters whilst trying to clear some of the paperwork off his desk.
Gordon and Virgil were attending to their Thunderbirds, carrying out much-needed and overdue maintenance. Thunderbird Four hadn't been required as much for rescues, so once Gordon had finished up the paperwork he had offered to lend a hand to his older brother. Virgil had accepted the offer with sincere gratitude.
Down in the underground launch bay the atmosphere was quiet. The peace was uncommon but not unwelcome. It allowed time for recuperation before the next call-out. Virgil could certainly agree with that view, as he now stood high on a scaffold peering into the many intricate wirings and delicate circuitry underneath Thunderbird Two's cockpit.
Holding his torch between his teeth, he aimed the beam of light into the great machine's head to gain a better view of the troublesome culprit. Taking hold of the electrical component and giving it a gentle pull, he released it from its housing, careful not to pull the wires with it that were soldered in place.
He spat out the torch from his mouth. "All right, Gordon, try that." His voice was muffled partly from the enclosed space he worked in – barely large enough to squeeze his broad frame into.
A muffled "F.A.B." from his watch informed Virgil that the aquanaut had heard him. A few moments later he received the negative reply.
"Sorry Virg, it's still not registering."
Virgil screwed his face in annoyance. Some of the ship's diagnostic software had detected a problem – a vital system in measuring the aircraft's airspeed wasn't working. The pitot tube had become blocked with ice after their rescue in Canada – not a completely major issue, but one that needed to be resolved as soon as possible. The static ports hadn't been blocked, meaning only the airspeed indicators had been affected, and Virgil had been able to fly home safely without his airspeed instrumentation with a little help from Alan. But it was a repair they needed to carry out, lest the static ports failed, and all airspeed and altimeter readings fail. Virgil didn't want to relive the horror of almost crashing in Thunderbird Two again as he had done with the incident with the Sentinel.
The craft's pilot leaned back for a moment and went through his mental checklist. There had been no problems with the wiring, and the sensors had passed his inspection. There was only one thing he could think of that could be causing the problem. "Damn it," he cursed to himself.
"What's the verdict, Virg?" sprang the voice from his watch.
"I think the heating element's gone in the pitot tube," came the response, a huff of resignation following.
"Damn, not good. How long is that going to take to replace?"
The words were bitter as they left Virgil's lips, the thought of the work he needed to do souring the fact his afternoon wasn't going to be as relaxed as he'd hoped. "A couple of hours, with your help."
He didn't need to see Gordon's face to know he'd come to the same realisation as Virgil. "F.A.B."
Wiping his hands on a rag tucked into his overalls, Virgil looked up to his girl and patted her nose. "Could've been worse, my beauty." Just then Virgil's wrist comm. began to vibrate, signalling an incoming call. "Not a call-out now," he groaned. It was just getting better and better. He answered the call. "Virgil here."
John's crinkled face replaced the watch face, anxiety creasing his brow and seeping into his eyes. "Hey, Virgil."
"John? What is it? What's wrong?"
"Something's wrong, I know that much, but I don't know what." John eyed behind him to check if Alan or Scott had returned yet. Virgil caught the gesture, his frown deepening.
"John?" Virgil prodded gently. John had lowered his head, only lifting his eyes in response to look at his brothers.
"We got another one of those calls about an hour ago. Only this time…" He trailed off, turning to the side to look once more behind him. "I think I know what's wrong with Scott."
Honey-burned eyes scrutinised the tiny screen, waiting to hear a further explanation from John. When he failed to elaborate, Virgil nudged him again. "John, what's wrong?"
John was visibly uncomfortable. Running a hand through his blonde locks he sighed, keeping his head low as he leaned on the console. "It's a bizarre theory, but it's the only one that makes sense. I think…"
There was an urgent beeping nearby, snatching John's attention away from the subject. "Hold on a second." Quickly moving over to the communications console, he opened the channel to accept the call. "This is International Rescue, receiving your call."
A high-pitched voice immediately responded, anguished cries spilling out in a language John recognised straight away as Japanese. Typing a command into the computer, the message was translated into English and relayed through the speaker in Virgil's wrist comm.
Eventually John turned back to his brothers, a manner of professionalism in place. "There's been a major fire in Tokyo, Japan. The top five floors in an apartment block are ablaze. The structure's very unstable, and local emergency services are struggling to regain control of the situation."
Both brothers knew their father and brother Gordon would have been patched in to listen to the report also.
With practised speed Virgil headed to the cockpit to prepare Thunderbird Two for lift-off, whilst Gordon ran to the storage bay to ready their equipment.
"Thanks John. Let Dad know we're in Thunderbird Two, ready to go."
"F.A.B., Virgil. Good luck."
"Oh and John? We'll continue the conversation once we've finished."
"Sure thing, Virg." John smiled, a little sheepish, knowing it would have to come out sooner rather than later. He disconnected the call to Virgil's wrist comm.
Straight away Virgil opened the link to his younger brother to deliver his orders. As the eldest on the island, Virgil naturally assumed control in Scott's absence.
"Gords, we're going to need the extra tanks of diacetyline as well as the fire suits."
"F.A.B. Fire suits are on board, as well as the oxygen and diacetyline tanks. Are we going to be ok flying without the repairs?"
"We'll be ok, so long as we don't fly through freezing temperatures."
Virgil started the pre-flight diagnostics, whilst pressing the required buttons to manoeuvre the pod containing the diacetyline cage to underneath his giant 'bird. Once the pod was in place, the carrier was lowered until the giant electromagnetic locks clicked into place.
Within minutes the green carrier was ready to proceed down the runway, revealing itself to the outside world as the cliff side door dropped into place. The palm trees folded back in submission, and the mighty 'bird powered forward towards her hydraulic ramp, ready to ascend to the heavens once more.
::x:x::xx::xXx::xx::x:x::
John Tracy looked into the bright eyes of his father, the bond of trust as strong as ever. If there was one thing John could always rely on his father for, it was his unwavering source of strength and support.
"Virgil and Gordon are already in Thunderbird Two, preparing to launch."
His father's confidence radiated from him. There was an unspoken sense of duty they all carried in their hearts whenever they were called to action, and they could see just how much it made their father proud. "F.A.B. John. Keep me informed of their progress."
The live feed from the space station switched back to the static portrait of his middle son. Once again the lounge was plunged into a taut silence, one which always descended upon the house when a rescue had been initiated, and one which refused to budge until the boys returned home safely. It was a suffocating but brief silence as Jeff's videophone began to beep for attention on his private line.
"Hello, Jeff Tracy speaking."
The picture of a rather worried, dark-haired young man came into focus. "Good afternoon, Sir," he started, a somewhat nervous edge to his tone. "I'm sorry to have to call you like this, but I'm afraid an emergency meeting has been summoned in your New York office. There's an important matter to discuss, concerning the firm's latest project."
Jeff frowned in concern at the young man's tone. "Emergency meeting? James, what's going on?"
Before James could continue, an older man approached from behind to appear on screen, placing himself between the young assistant and the video screen. "Sorry Jeff, but this is serious. We've had a call from the engineers telling us there's a defect with the TC225 engine, and it looks like it's going to take time to repair. Time we, unfortunately, don't have, since the final deadline for the TC225s is due in less than…" he looked quickly at his watch, made his calculations. "…in less than twenty six hours. We need an urgent plan of action."
Jeff contemplated the words, the implications of his friend's explanation circling his mind. "Marcus, are the rest of the board aware of this?"
Jeff's long-time friend Marcus Spellman nodded his head in reply. "We're all waiting on you, Jeff. I'm sorry, but this can't wait."
Jeff was caught between a rock and a hard place. He was needed to take command of International Rescue's base, but at the same time there was an urgent situation developing in Tracy Industries. From across the room Tin-Tin smiled, sympathising with him, a silent offer of assistance.
"Okay, Marcus. I'll head the meeting from my study. Give me a couple of minutes to gather my paperwork." For Jeff, this silently translated as 'give me a couple of minutes to find cover for International Rescue's base'.
"Sure thing, Jeff." The video link of the grey-haired man disappeared, replaced by a blank screen.
Jeff rustled the papers together that scattered across his desk into reasonably neat piles. Turning to Tin-Tin, his eyes held a note of small pleading. "Tin-Tin, I hate to ask this of you, but…"
"Of course, Mr. Tracy. I will take care of command here." She was more than willing to help with the workload. When he appeared to hesitate, she reassured him. "Please, don't worry. Go and see to the meeting. Tracy Corporation needs you more than International Rescue right now."
"Thank you, Tin-Tin. I really appreciate it." Jeff smiled, relieved and grateful. If there was one thing he hated to do it was to leave the base empty without someone available to answer any calls from his team.
He swiftly made his way from the lounge to his study next door, knowing it was the one room where he wouldn't be disturbed unless it was an emergency.
Tin-Tin took her position behind the command desk, and intertwined her fingers as she waited for any news.
::x:x::xx::xXx::xx::x:x::
A low, sharp whistle emitted from behind John as further reports of the fire came through the speaker. "It sounds bad."
John nodded his agreement to Alan's statement. "Let's hope Gordon and Virgil can get there in time to help those trapped in the top floors."
Neither of the blonde brothers had noticed Scott's brief absence, but didn't miss his return as he stood by Alan's side once again. He flashed a short smile as Alan looked to him with curiosity.
Before Alan could say anything, Scott blurted out, "All right, John, I think it's time we headed back to Base."
John twisted around to view his older brother, ready for his goodbyes. "Okay then. You guys take care travelling back." He reached over to Alan to embrace him in a farewell hug. "You behave yourself, Alan," he whispered into the young blonde's ear, knowing full well it was a futile gesture and that he wasn't willing to place bets on the outcome of such a statement.
"Watch out for him, Scott, he's got something planned." John reached for his older brother and wrapped his arms around him, a small "Hey!" of protest drifting from Alan's direction. He felt Scott stiffen at the contact, but then relax and return his embrace.
The youngest and eldest Tracys turned towards the hatch, on their way to Thunderbird Three. Within a quarter of an hour the retro rockets were firing and the shuttle was on its journey back to Earth.
With their absence the room felt empty; a stealthy void consuming the air left still by the silence. John was used to being alone – in fact, he often preferred the slow movement of time solitude had to offer over the bustling speed found on Earth below. People seemed to be in such a desperate hurry to travel from A to B, cutting corners and breaking the speed limit to save time. Whereas up here, he didn't seem to even notice time existed.
Without realising it his fingers had started tapping out a random rhythm on the desk, the lack of reports or updates giving him little to partake in. Gazing out at the wilderness of space, he watched the constellations play out before him in their dazzling spectacle of a show, millions of years in the making and for one night only.
His mind floated in a sea of memories, drifting him back to a time when Scott had discovered his secret hobby when he was around ten years old. His mother, to an extent, had shared his hobby, though she hadn't studied the art of astronomy to such a degree as her middle son. John's passion for the subject blossomed; he read book after book until he had memorised every word and fact from the first page to the last. Knowledge of the astral bodies had been soaked up by his desire to learn more, but his shyness and relatively quiet nature meant he didn't share such knowledge of his hobby with anyone else. This was his special place, his secret space.
That was, until Scott found him outside one night, gazing up at the stars.
Scott was a hard brother to grow close to, John had found. They were almost complete opposites of each other – Scott the bold, daring type, while John preferred the quiet backseat to adventure. Where Scott would be quick and intuitive, John was slower but more methodical in approach. His approach felt safer, less intrusive and less dramatic. So when Scott had discovered him stargazing one night in the middle of summer, John had almost burned up with embarrassment.
But instead of teasing him, as John had expected, Scott had sat down and had begun talking to him, asking him questions about the wonders of the solar system. John had been more than happy to talk away, breaking through his timid shell that encased his true persona. Talk of the stars had led on to other more intimate subjects – the meaning of life, their future, and, more painfully, their mother. John's relations to the stars hadn't ended with just his fascination for them. They brought forth many memories and emotions of times he had spent with his mother, huddled next to her with a bowl of marshmallows, an astronomy book and a spyglass.
Looking up to the stars, he saw himself reflected back on them, and the piece of his life that was missing.
That night, he had learned far more about his older brother than he had in the whole ten years of his life. Scott had revealed a softer side to himself – one of a young man more mature than his fifteen years should be. One more open to differences of opinion – of his own, and of his brothers. One more aware of the consequences of such opinions and choices, and one all too painfully aware of just how important family was. John was proud to have every minute of such memories to look back on.
That's when Scott had given him his nickname that only he and Scott shared. To Scott, John had become 'Star Man', whilst Scott had become the 'Hot Shot'. Though such nicknames had faded into obscure usage, they still surfaced from time to time.
John heaved a hearty sigh. Something wasn't sitting right between him and Scott. Things felt stretched between them, made more blatantly obvious by the lack of chit-chat that normally occurred. Of course Scott was talking to him, but there was more to it than that.
Scott's body language was all wrong to begin with. His manner was so abnormal at times, and non-existent at others. John wondered if his theory was as out there as he had originally thought.
This would be an excellent case for Mulder and Scully, John mused.
The young man wanted to express his feelings over the matter so urgently, his mind hyper-analysing all the facts to a point of burn out. But knew he would have to wait. Right now his brothers were all occupied in some way or another, either on rescues or heading back to Earth. He supposed there was always his father…
John made the snap decision to call Base. Reaching out, his finger froze over the button that would connect the call. It hovered for seconds, before lowering back to the desk.
He knew this probably wasn't the best time to voice such concerns, with Virgil and Gordon being away on rescue. What if they needed to contact Base for whatever reason? They would need their father's undivided attention.
But if his theory was correct, or at least held some amount of truth, then his father would need to be made aware of it. No matter how crazy it seemed.
His finger hovered over the console again, only this time descending to press the button. The computer bleeped an acknowledgement, and the call was placed.
His call was answered with little delay, but John was caught off-balance when it was Tin-Tin's image that appeared before him. "Tin-Tin? Where's Dad? Is everything all right?" He found himself reeling off the questions in quick succession.
"Hello, John. I'm afraid your father was called away to an important meeting, something to do with the Tracy Corp. office in New York. Can I help you?"
In a way John was relieved it hadn't been his father who had answered. Although he was more than comfortable talking to his father about most things, there was the rare occasion where he felt safer talking to one of his brothers. Often it would be Gordon or Virgil, but of course they were unavailable.
"Er… Well…" John faltered, unsure how to proceed. The brothers all thought of Tin-Tin as the little sister their parents never had. They were all close to the young woman, and all very protective of her. Alan especially, sharing many of his deepest, darkest fears with her and his most precious secrets. Though Alan was, in a way, very close to Gordon on many levels, it was his intimate side he tended to share with Tin-Tin.
John knew he could trust Tin-Tin – he could trust her with his life – but there were some things only a blood brother could pick up on; could read 'between the lines'. Instead, clearing his throat, John took a diverted approach. "Tin-Tin, is there such a thing as… well, as switching bodies with someone? I mean, is it possible?"
A frown answered him. "Switching bodies? You mean, in a spiritual sense?" When John seemed to pause again, considering his answer, Tin-Tin added, "What is it, John? What's on your mind?"
A momentary pause, followed by a soft sigh. "I don't know, Tin-Tin. This might sound really strange, but I don't think Scott is who we think he is." He took a steadying breath before releasing the killer line. "I don't think Scott is there at all…" John trailed off, realising Tin-Tin's gaze had shifted over to the side.
Tin-Tin's attention had been snagged by the bleeping near to John's portrait. At John's end of the line it was very faint but recognisable as the sound of one of the portraits signalling for immediate attention. As politely as she could Tin-Tin interrupted John's call. "I'm sorry John, but there's a call coming in from Virgil."
"F.A.B., Tin-Tin. I'll talk to you later." John hastily cut the connection, feeling somewhat disappointed that his words hadn't been heeded, but understanding at the same time. Another nervous hand ran through his hair, parting his waves of blonde locks. He would have to wait. He knew he couldn't interrupt his father's meeting without being chewed out for it. Not for a simple hunch.
But this was more than a hunch. He was fairly certain he could back up his claims.
He knew, somewhere in the deep, emotional pit he called his heart, that it couldn't be Scott Tracy who was now returning home in Thunderbird Three with their – his – youngest brother. He knew it couldn't be Scott Tracy who had been reluctant to report the most recent call to their father, even though they had been given such instructions to do so.
He knew it couldn't have been Scott Tracy who had collapsed in Canada, cutting his forehead.
What John had noted, now with startling crystal clarity as the hypothesis kept running over and over through his head, was that the caller on the radio had sounded far more like the Scott Tracy he had know for the whole of his twenty-eight years of existence.
The caller who was now trapped in Canada, all alone…