It didn't take much to figure out how to work the little sub. As Jeff hurtled Four down the runway towards the blue freedom of the sea, he winced. He knew what his Gordon would say about calling Four the little sub. He was pretty sure the other Gordon would feel the same.
I'm sorry, Gordon, he thought, not quite sure which aquanaut he was apologising to more. But I can't stay here anymore.
Plunging into the water, Jeff activated the ballast control and adjusted the hydroplanes to send the sub down, down, down.
"Alright," he thought. "Part one of plan is complete. Now to figure out part two..."
He had shut off the comm. system to keep the fury of the elder Jeff Tracy away. The younger Jeff couldn't blame him. I'd react in exactly the same way myself. But he did need to activate the comm. because, in this strange world, he had only one friend - although friend was likely too strong a term in reality.
Jeff's fingers lingered over the controls as he steeled himself for the ire that was to come.
He pressed the button.
There was a burst of anger as the comm. switched on but it was short-lived. Jeff slammed in the frequency he wanted. Sweat broke out on his brow.
"Sheridan?" he said, swallowing. "Are you there?"
After a beat, the reply came.
"Jeff? That you?"
"Yeah, it's me," Jeff said. The sweat cooled. It tricked down his temple. "I may have done a dumb thing. I've... I've stolen a Thunderbird and I'm heading for you."
"What the -?" Sheridan spluttered. "Jeff, y'all are nuts! Why?"
"I can't stay there any longer. I need to do something. They're doing nothing."
There was muttering on the line as Sheridan consulted with Coral. Then his voice came back loud and clear
"Alright," he sighed. "Gimme the details. Let's see if we can't help y'all out again."
Even though he knew little of the man, Jeff still sighed in relief.
"Thanks," he breathed. "First things first - I need to know how to deactivate the tracker on this thing. I'm sure they'll have one."
"You in the yellow submarine?" Sheridan asked. At Jeff's affirmative, he grunted. "Well, at least I might know somethin' about it, since it's a sub. Give us your-co-ordinates. Coral and I are breaking off. We'll head out to ya."
Doing as he was told, Jeff swallowed. His throat was dry.
I hope I'm doing the right thing...
~oOo~
"What the hell is he thinking?" Jeff asked, slamming his fist on the desk. Push pins and pens rattled.
Unable to stop herself jumping, Tin-Tin flinched. Her hands went to her baby bump, resting on its soft fabric cover. The skin underneath was firm.
She was about to offer some words of comfort but she was cut off before she could open her mouth.
"Land's sakes, Jeff!" Grandma Tracy admonished, holding Adam close to her side. "He's just doing what you would do in his place." Jeff parted his lips to retort, but Grandma's hand was quicker. Her raised finger allowed no argument. "Don't you say it," she said. "You'd have done the same. I know you, Jeff Tracy."
"Yeah, Grampa," Adam said.
Tin-Tin's eyes bulged. Adam, this is not a good time! But the little boy's face was set in such an echo of his great-grandmother's that Tin-Tin couldn't help but smile.
Behind them, there was a stifled chortle. Tin-Tin glanced over her shoulder to see Matthew with his fist half-stuffed into his mouth.
Jeff was muted by both his mother's rebuke and his grandson's cuteness. He snapped his mouth shut and dropped into his desk chair.
At the same time, Scott reappeared. He wore the same frown he always did when he was kept back from a rescue: one that was deeply lined. Virgil and Gordon had gone after the other Jeff in Two, pod four an empty belly in the great green beast. Straight away, Jeff's attention was on his second in command.
"Alan's still tracking Four's progress," he said. "Virgil is hot on his heels."
"For now, Father," Scott said. He leaned against the desk. "If he's anything like me - or you, for that matter - he'll disable the tracker. And then we'll really be sunk."
Jeff's face darkened more. He nodded.
"Right. Of all the craft to take, he had to take that one."
"The logical choice," Scott said. "It's the only one he's been in. He'll have memorised as many of the controls as he could and it won't take much to figure out the rest."
Tin-Tin felt a twinge of discomfort as the baby twisted within her. She stepped back and headed for the couch. Immediately, there was a redhead at her side.
"You okay?" Matthew asked.
"Just uncomfortable," she said. She smiled gratefully as Matt passed her an additional throw cushion. "All this tension isn't doing me any good."
"She'll be grand when she comes out," Matthew said, gesturing at her baby bump. "She'll be a hardened fighter."
Tin-Tin raised an eyebrow.
"She?" she asked. "What makes you so sure?"
Shrugging, Matthew gave a lopsided smile.
"Just a feeling," he said.
Shifting to place the cushion behind her back, Tin-Tin winced.
"Well, whether it's a girl or a boy, I just hope he or she is okay." She gave a soft sigh. "I haven't had an easy pregnancy yet!"
Matthew reached out to pat her hand. There was an easiness about his eyes that made her feel better just under their gaze. It seemed strange to gain such comfort from a man who had shot someone dead right there in the lounge, ten feet from where they were sitting. But it was necessary, Tin-Tin thought. That evil wench would have killed us all...
She tried not to think too much about the incident with Malaya. It could have all ended so badly...
But it didn't, she thought. It didn't then and it won't now. Once again, as it had done so many times before, her gaze flicked to the leftmost portrait. To the blond quiff. To those bright blue eyes.
Come home, John, she thought. Come home.
~oOo~
Nothing. Such a simple word to sum up a simple truth. Scott had found nothing at the sight of the disappearance. No wreckage. No bits of floating fuselage. No sinking vessel. Nothing. It was as if the ship had never even been there. But it had been. And now it was gone.
John folded his arms and stared up at the midnight moon, picking out the ridges and dips that he knew so well. He traced the seas, from Oceanus Procellarum all the way across to Mare Fecunditatis. The Copernicus crater blinked out like a white eye. I guess the Moon is the Moon, no matter the universe, he thought.
For some time, he simply stood and looked. The ache of his ribs had lessened but the pain in his heart cut deeper. Somewhere up there, etched into the surface, there should have been a set of footprints that belonged to his father. The first footprints on the moon.
Here, those footprints didn't exist. Someone called Armstrong had been the first to set foot on the lunar surface, not a Tracy. On the surface the Moon looked the same. But if you looked close enough, it wasn't. Not at all.
"Nice night for it."
Turning, John blinked. Scott – this young Scott, who in some ways seemed older than his own Scott – padded to his side. His arms hung loose. He, too, was drawn to looking at the moon.
"I've always been a sucker for a body with an iron-rich core," John said, raising an eyebrow.
For a moment, Scott simply looked at him. John felt the grasp of anxiety tighten around his throat.
"Did I say something wrong?" he asked.
"No!" Scott said, John's worry jolting him back into action. "Not at all. It's just… You made a joke."
Twisting his lips, John tilted his head to one side.
"Yeah. So?"
Chuckling, Scott waved him off.
"Nothing, sorry," he said. "I just didn't expect it, that's all. John – my John, isn't really one for jokes. Most of the time they just, woosh," he said, making a sweeping gesture above his head.
Returning his gaze to the Moon, John shook his head.
"Well, it's a good thing I'm not him, then," he said. "If I didn't know how to laugh, I'd have cried myself to death a long time ago."
Wincing, John gritted his teeth. Suddenly, his glasses felt interminably heavy on the bridge of his nose. There was a moment of quiet. Just the sea breeze and the rustle of palm leaves broke through. Then came the question John had been quietly dreading.
"If you don't mind my asking," Scott began, "what happened to you? There've been a few mentions here and there of…something. I'm just curious, is all."
Swallowing against the lump that threatened to form in his throat, John half-turned. He caught Scott from the corner of his eye.
"Nothing good," John said. He winced at the pain in his voice. "I've…been through the wringer. A few times."
He was glad his arms were crossed, for even as they were, they started to shake. At least this way, it's not as obvious…
"How about a scotch?" Scott asked.
John turned around fully. He looked his not-brother straight in the eye, trying not to squint.
"Alright," he said at length. "One scotch."
They began to walk back towards the house, but John stopped.
"I take it you're not in the habit of drinking and flying," he said.
Chuckling, Scott ushered him in.
"Nah," he said. "I've reached my flight time limit for the day. Even if a call came in, I wouldn't be allowed to fly. Not that it would stop me. I know I can fly more. But The Man Upstairs," he said, pointing at the ceiling, "wouldn't let me."
"Who, God?" John asked as he followed Scott upstairs.
"Nearly," Scott replied with another chuckle. "John Tracy, God. Both all-powerful, all-knowing. Same thing, really."
"Hah."
John's laugh fell flat. As he climbed the stairs, his feet felt leaden. I doubt my Scott would say that about me, he thought. I'm definitely neither of those things. He holds the sway of power and knowledge – at least where rescues are concerned. After Dad, of course.
He followed Scott to the curved desk that looked down on the sunken couch area. Plucking a key from underneath an ornate jade ashtray – Never used, I note, John thought – Scott unlocked one of the drawers under the table top. From inside he withdrew an almost-full bottle.
"Glenfiddich," he said, holding the bottle aloft. "Single malt deliciousness." Again from inside the drawer, he withdrew two round-bottom glasses that tapered towards the top. "Perfect for a 'wee dram.'"
Pouring the scotch and leading the way to the couch area, Scott gestured for John to sit. He did so, swirling the golden liquid around in the glass.
Several drams later, he had told all.
As if processing the information, Scott sat back and let out a low whistle.
"Man," he said. "I just… I can't believe how much you've been through. And you're still standing."
John, cheeks flushed from both scotch and embarrassment, waved the comment off.
"Just about," he said. "Most of the time, I feel like I'm walking through life on my knees."
"Hey, don't put yourself down," Scott said. He set his glass aside and leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs. "You've been through hell a few times and you've kept getting back up. And you haven't just survived. You've built a whole new life for yourself. You've got a kid. You've got a…uh, boyfriend?" The last word came out as a question.
John shook his head.
"Fiancé, now," he corrected. "And it's soon going to be kids, not kid. At least, that was the idea… We were all set to start looking into adoption. Then, boom." He emulated a slow-motion explosion with his hands, the empty glass clutched between his left-hand fingers. "Everything blew up. Again."
"We'll get you home," Scott said with far too much zeal for two in the morning. "Brains is working on something. He always comes through."
John chuckled.
"Sounds familiar," he said. His words were punctuated by a sharp yawn. Blinking, he leaned forward and set his glass aside. "I am far too old for this," he said. "I should get some sleep." A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. "I can't keep up with you young whipper-snappers, now. What age are you, twenty-four, twenty-five?"
Grinning, Scott shrugged.
"A little of column A, a little of column B," he said. "I won't shame you with my true youth…old man."
"And on that note, I will take my ancient bones to bed. Thanks for the drink," he said, standing and arching his back. The disks popped. "Oh, man. I am old."
Waving his goodnight, Scott gathered the glasses. John walked off, his back slumped.
His head was spinning from the alcohol and his chest felt warmer – but that wasn't just a product of the scotch. Talking to Scott had been like… Well, talking to Scott. Therapeutic. Right.
He was asleep within seconds of his head hitting the pillow. He dreamt of home, as he did every night.
This time, it was a good dream.