It wouldn't have been the first time someone had come to the island who knew their secrets. It was just the first time someone came claiming to be his father. Gordon shook his head as he settled into Four's control seat. This is weird. This is so very weird… But, could it be linked to Tracy One's disappearance? It's gotto be!
Taking a deep breath, Gordon closed his eyes and willed his hands to stop shaking. Cool it, Tracy, he thought. Just cool it. Opening his eyes again, he started to key in Four's emergency launch procedures.
The rare sound of the small submarine's hover jets filled the inside of the pod. Then Virgil's voice boomed through the comm.
"Lowering pod door now."
As the pod door opened, light from outside spilled in. Two's hangar was already open and the long stretch of the runway yawned out before him. Gordon steeled himself and started to move forward.
"F.A.B., Virgil," he said. "Commencing emergency launch now."
It was a strange sight to see the palm trees that flanked the runway upright and towering high above him. Indeed, it hadn't been since the incident with the Sentinel so many years before that Gordon had taken Four out solo. But there he was, shooting down the runway alone, then hitting the water and starting his journey out into the Pacific.
"Base from Thunderbird Four," he said. "En route now, Father. I'll keep you updated."
"Do that, Gordon," came the reply. Then there was a pause. "And Gordon, make sure you're armed."
He resisted the urge to chuckle.
"I will, Father."
Plotting his course as the comm. cut off, Gordon shook his head. There'll be no violence, he thought. Especially not if this so-called Jeff Tracy is with W.A.S.P. – and double especially if he's with 'Phones' Sheridan. I never met a more genuine guy in my life.
Thus, Gordon set off through the ocean, on the way to meet a man who claimed to be his father.
~oOo~
His hands were trembling by the time he reached the sick room and it had very little to do with the exhaustion that was threatening to sweep him away. Lyra tore away from his grip and shot off into the room. John brought up the rear, flanked by two pseudo-brothers. His heart hammered in his chest.
And then he reached the door. He saw a pale figure with a red head sitting up in the bed. He swallowed hard.
"Eli."
Casting off the helping hands, he ran forward in a blur, praying for a clear floor and ignoring the fire in his sides. His legs banged against the side of the bed as he leaned down and scooped his fiancé into as tight as hug as he could muster.
"Eli, thank God."
"Johnny."
The name was the sweetest word that had ever been whispered into his ears. Together they held each other, for seconds that stretched into eternity, not caring who was there, not caring who was watching. John inhaled the scent of Eli's hair, unwashed and yet still sweet. He pressed his face against the carpet of red stubble that covered his cheek, relishing the sting on his own skin.
"I thought I'd lost you," John said.
"Johnny... Jesus, Mary and Holy Saint Joseph, at least we're alright."
A tiny body squashed itself in between them and at last, John drew back. Lyra was sobbing, reaching out to hang on Elijah's neck.
"Dadaí," she said through quivering breaths, "I thought you weren't coming back!"
"Oh, Ly-Ly," Elijah said, reaching his one good arm up to embrace her. "I'll never leave you. Never."
Then he pulled back and turned his face to John.
"Cá bhfuil muid?" he asked.
John chuckled and raised his eyes to the ceiling. Where are we? There's only one answer I can give you…
"Tá sé ina scéal casta…" he replied.
And it was true. It was a complicated story, indeed.
Elijah shook his head. Then John saw the dark red of his brows draw downwards.
"An bhfuil tú ceart go leor?"
"Níos mó nó níos lú," he replied.
Again, it was true. He was alright, more or less.
There was a soft cough from behind them and John turned. A grey and purple blur was hovering at his shoulder. Grandma – or at least, theirgrandma.
"Elijah, is it?" she asked.
"Yes, uh… What can I call you?"
"Oh," the older woman said with a chuckle. "You can call me Grandma – everybody does!"
Elijah chuckled.
"That sounds familiar," he said.
John's breath caught in his throat and he laughed – though it came out in as a high strangled choke.
"Elijah, there's a lot that's going to sound familiar," he said. "You aren't going to believe where the hell we are…"
~oOo~
"Barracuda from Thunderbird Four," Gordon said. "ETA to your location is one minute."
"Understood, Thunderbird Four," came the drawling reply. "My passenger is ready to depart. All y'all need to do is pick 'im up."
Gordon grinned at the sound of Phones's voice. It had been many years since he'd had dealings with the man. During his W.A.S.P. career, he hadn't crossed paths with the crew of Stingray too many times. But the exploits of Troy Tempest and George 'Phones' Sheridan were so legendary that every new recruit knew them like the back of their hands. Eighteen year old Gordon Tracy had been no different.
When he reached the rendezvous point, his heart was pounding. Why am I so nervous? Gordon thought. It was a stupid question, though, and he knew it. Of course he was worried. What was about to happen was unclear. It had the potential to be damned dangerous. One thing Gordon had learned over the course of his life was that you couldn't take everyone at face value, and that International Rescue's secrets were valuable enough for people to lie for – and even to kill for. It could all be an elaborate ruse, he thought. And yet equally, it could have been the key to bringing his brother, niece and soon-to-be-brother-in-law home. We've got to risk it, he thought.
Through the gloom of the deep Pacific, the Barracuda emerged with its bright lights shimmering like diamonds. Gordon brought Four around, his fingers dancing over the controls as he readied the craft for docking.
"Ready on this end," Phones said.
"Commencing docking procedures now," Gordon replied.
With a muffled clunk, the two craft docked, their airlocks coming together in a metallic kiss. Gordon stood, took a deep breath, and turned. It was time to meet the man who claimed to be his father… Even though his father was safe and sound at home.
As the airlocks cycled, Gordon shook his head. One hand hovered at the gun holstered on his left hip. Nothing bad will happen, he thought. Then he shook his head. How many times has that been said in the past? And how many times have those been someone's last words?
At last, he was granted entry – and for the first time in ten years, Gordon Tracy set foot on a W.A.S.P. ship. The first thing he saw was his father's face. His throat tightened.
"Oh my God."
The man who wasn't his father stepped forward. Phones was at his left shoulder but he didn't approach. Gordon stood rooted to the spot as the man who wasn't his father approached him, stopping about half a meter away.
"Gordon?" he asked. Then he looked up. "Your hair."
He couldn't help it. Gordon laughed.
There was a pause for a moment, and then the skin at the other man's eyes crinkled – and then they were laughing together. Gordon planted his hands on his hips and shook his head.
"I am Gordon," he said through laughs, "but I don't know who the hell you are."
The other man shook his head and wiped away a tear of mirth.
"You're not my Gordon," he said, "and I'm not your father. But by Christ, you look like my son."
"And you look like my dad," Gordon replied. "Now, care to explain what the hell is going on?"
"I wish I could," the other Jeff said, the mirth subsiding as reality struck like a hot iron. "I truly do. But I don't."
"An' neither do I," Phones said, finally stepping forward. He grinned and shook his head. "Gordon Tracy, as Ah live and breathe. Y'know, Ah shouldn't be as surprised as Ah am. Never understood why you gave up a career in W.A.S.P. – but now Ah get it."
Reaching out a hand, Gordon grinned. They exchanged a tight handshake.
"Phones," he said. "I see they finally gave you your own ship. How's Tempest going to survive without you?"
Barking out a laugh, Phones shrugged.
"Let's just say, things are very different for him now," he said. "But I'm not complainin'. Ah like bein' the boss, for once."
"I'm sure you do!" Gordon said. Then he looked at Jeff again. "We'd best get going," he said. "My father wants to meet you. I hope you're prepared for a grilling."
The other man raised one eyebrow in a way that was so reminiscent of his father that Gordon stepped back.
"I think I'll be able to handle it," the other Jeff said.
Then he turned to Phones and reached out a hand.
"Thank you for everything," he said.
Phones grabbed Jeff's hand, pulled him forward and into a brief embrace.
"This ain't over yet," he said. "Y'all needa keep me informed," he said. "If you can figure out what's happened to you, then we might be able to figure out what the hell is goin' on with all these barrels fallin' from the sky."
"Will do," Jeff said. "Thanks again."
"Any time," he said. Then he turned to Gordon. "Good to see you again, kid," he said. "Don't worry, your secret's safe with me."
"I'll hold you to that," Gordon replied.
At that, he gave Phones a snappy salute and grinned when it was returned. Then, he looked at the man who wasn't his father and gestured to the airlock.
"Let's go," he said.
~oOo~
Family meeting. That was a phrase John hadn't heard since he was a teenager. His father and sometimes Scott – had called family meetings, never for a pleasant reason. Usually, it had involved some kind of new law being laid down. This time, though, John thought as he sat on an unfamiliar green couch, Lyra sandwiched between himself and a freshly showered Elijah, he wasn't sure what to expect. Because it wasn't his family. Because it wasn't his home. And yet here he was, surrounded by people that were partly familiar and yet partly alien.
The room was alive with a buzz of conversation, with the occasional clink of a glass or a mug. Still unable to make out exactly what was happening, John looked over Lyra's head to catch Elijah's eyes.
"Who's here and who's not?" he asked.
When Elijah replied, his voice still had the shell shocked tone it had taken on after John had explained what had happened – or at least, what he knew.
"Uhh, there are three of them here," he said. "Plus the woman and Grandma – and 'Brains' as just appeared. And he's walking towards us."
Squinting, John watched as the brown and pink blur came towards him, flanked by the black and white creature that he'd been told was called M.A.X.
"H-hello, John," Brains said as he descended the three stairs to the living area. "I have s-something that I h-hope will solve your sight problems. At least t-temporarily. M-may I?"
John made an open gesture with his hands and nodded.
"Go ahead," he said. "Whatever it is, it can only be an improvement on everything being a blur."
Two gentle hands settled on his face and shoulder, and something cold was slid onto his face. Instinctively, John closed his eyes.
"O-okay," Brains said. "These are g-glasses I made on the fabricator. They're not p-particularly fashionable, but they should correct your vision. O-open your eyes."
Doing as he was told, John slowly opened one eye and then the other. An unfamiliar world swirled before him, a technicolour puzzle that took his breath away. The face in front of him was unmistakably Brains, and yet it wasn't. This man's appearance matched his voice – he was of Indian descent, not white. But the blue glasses were there, and beneath them, a pair of eyes that might have been a different colour, but were filled with the same compassion that John knew.
"Wow," he breathed. "I – I can see."
"Excellent," Brains said, withdrawing his hand. Then he turned around. "You see?" he said. "I t-told you I could d-do it."
A series of bleeps and whirs caught John's attention. He looked up to see the metal spider that Lyra had talked about. M.A.X., he thought. He's a lot more impressive looking than Braman!
As if he had woken from a dream, John started drinking in every detail around him. It was like he was looking at life from an entirely new angle. Brains's glasses hadn't just corrected his vision. They had brought life back into the same sharp focus that John hadn't experienced since he was a kid. Everything was bright and beautiful, the house an explosion of colour and light. His mouth fell open as he looked up at the clear sphere of hexagonal glass that made up the roof. Then he dropped his gaze and looked from the broad sweep of windows that looked out onto a pool and the ocean.
Unable to stop himself, he stood and blinked, taking in everything he could. There was a grand piano to the right, but it wasn't the pure white of his mother's baby grand. It was polished black, almost like onyx, and not sullied with so much as one fingerprint. Nearby, flat against the wall, was a tall portrait of a rocket – and John knew exactly where it would lead. Thunderbird Two.
Then he turned his attention back to the living area and his lungs froze. There was Gordon, but it wasn't. He was shorter – and blond. Beside him, a figure stood, his face painted with wonder.
"Alan?"
