49: Epilogue

Scott Tracy it was who led the IR medical-rescue team into Spain after Cindy and Doctor Floyd. He'd been forewarned of the danger when she cut off their link and stopped broadcasting. Then, his supposedly medicated brother had wrist-commed him to say that the reporter and physician required extraction. Must have been a pre-recorded message, because John was in full uniform and sash, and he appeared perfectly groomed. Strange… but John was an oddly talented guy. Leave it at that.

Scott received coordinates from his brother at the very same time that both astronauts were reported as having slipped into shock. He left Virgil and Jeff at home pacing the floor, taking off in Thunderbird 1 to gather an operative team and head for distant Spain.

It would have been nice to concentrate… to think only of getting to Cindy… but other things kept intruding. The FBI wanted to speak with Alan. Dr. Pryce from the CDC wanted to know how the hell Gordon had left Europe for the south Pacific when his plane was still in the hangar and all public transport was blocked. Meanwhile, the police officer/ operative who'd tried kidnapping Alan continued to elude capture… but his car turned up by the side of the road, on fire, and a team dispatched to his apartment found the place ransacked. Added to all this was the news that Julio… the young man who'd held Scott at gunpoint in New York… was about to face his bail hearing.

Like his father, Scott Tracy was subsisting these days on coffee, antacid tablets, checklists and cold sandwiches. He could have used Penelope's help, but she'd vanished, just like that; quitting the island between dawn and morning without a word to anyone.

Thunderbird 1 was fast, and the skies over Western Europe depressingly free of air traffic, but Scott still felt like he was swimming backward through mud. He could not touch down directly, but had to hold the Bird steady in midair while Ahmet Khalid and Natalya Camacho were winched down into the walled courtyard of safe-house four, in Salamanca.

Any other time, he'd have been challenged. Police, military, news crews… someone would have reacted to a big silver rocket plane hovering like a dragonfly over the city's old quarter. It made a tense, hard knot in Scott's stomach that no one and nothing reacted. As far as he could see, the streets were clear, the houses still and silent. Thunderbird 1's rescue basket went down with the sun, apparently unnoticed.

Scott watched from above as Ahmet and Natalya leapt over the side and raced into the house, using their IR pass codes to get past its electronic defenses. They wore hazard suits and carried an air tank charged with bootlegged cure virus, which Scott had been advised to use as a last resort. Understood; though he might not have a choice.

So, Scott waited, forcing himself to focus and fly the damn plane. One minute… two…

What would he do if Cindy and Doctor Floyd were already dead? Why had he let them go out on such a damn-fool mission in the first place? And what was taking so long? It required every bit of discipline he had, not to call for an update.

Leave them alone, Scott told himself. Let them do their jobs.

Three minutes… four…

Gordon had people out here, somewhere, too; his girlfriend and teammates. On a sudden impulse, Scott called his brother (now deeply unconscious, according to Pete McCord). Once again, inexplicably, he was answered.

"Current whereabouts of Anika Peralta and European Men's swim team will be researched. Researching location. Location found."

Coordinates followed, but damn few of them. The girl was still alive, and one or two of Gordon's teammates. Otherwise, John couldn't come up with much.

Five minutes…

"I'm, uh… not talking to John, am I?" he said to the flawless blond image. It replied,

"John Tracy is currently off-line. Requests and commands filed with this entity will be processed as though received by John Tracy."

For some reason, this felt like a betrayal. Like reaching for someone's hand and getting a dried branch, instead.

The wind kicked up, forcing Scott to fight Thunderbird 1 for awhile, but when his craft stabilized (six minutes, thirty seconds) he said,

"Okay, so what do I call you, then?"

"This entity is known to John Tracy as Five. This entity has been instructed to cooperate with Tracy 1.0, Scott Aaron Tracy."

Huh. Five… as in Thunderbird 5? Evidently, John hadn't taken their father's artificial intelligence ban very seriously. Any cave in a blizzard, though.

Ahmet and Natalya burst from the safe-house before Scott could frame his next question. They were carrying a person apiece, air-masked and wrapped in warm blankets. From this angle, Scott couldn't read expressions. He watched anxiously, finally hitting the comm to ask,

"How are they?"

Natalya responded briefly,

"Not good, sir. The doctor is pretty far gone, but both women need immediate help."

Scott could hear Ahmet in the background, speaking encouragingly to his former South Pole Station comrade. "Hang in there, Sharon…" That sort of thing.

"Right," Scott commanded. "Get them aboard and stabilized. We've got a couple more stops to make."

If there was a God in heaven, and He cared about fighter pilots, Cindy and Doctor Floyd would live. If swimmers mattered, too, then Thunderbird 1 would reach Madrid in time to do some good.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

31 December, Tracy Island. Around 10:35 PM-

When things change, they often do so quite suddenly. Scott left the house that night because his tuxedo was suffocating him, and because he didn't much feel like opening presents or receiving sympathy.

There was a well-marked path from the lower pool deck to the beach. Loosening his bow tie, Scott slipped away from the others and headed down to the shore. Churning water, bright moonlight and think-time were what he needed now, not bracing pats and kind words. He had a lot on his mind.

A "partial success" his father had called their response to the space flu situation, which was pretty much the same way NASA rated the Ares III mission. A qualified success.

Scott made his way to the water's lacy, moving edge, aware of his three-thousand dollar Italian shoes, but not caring. Partial success meant that the phage worked, but Spain, France and Portugal had been decimated. It meant that Sharon Floyd had been too old to survive the battle between virus and bacteria, and had breathed her last with a quiet smile and a "Thank you, Aaron".

It meant that NASA's funding was slashed so deeply that Ares IV might never get off the ground. It meant that John and his crewmates were safe at home, quietly 'retired'. That Red Path was crippled, but still dangerous.

Partial success translated to lingering weakness for Gordon Tracy, whose full strength might never return (try as he might to conceal it). It meant personal loss, as well, for though Anika Peralta, Nathan Croft and Royce Fellows had survived, many others hadn't. He was in Europe now, spending time with his surviving friends before reporting to the WASP recruitment station.

As for Scott… partial success. Cindy had recovered, but she wanted to break off their engagement, and wouldn't explain why. He'd convinced her to wait, though. That was something. Maybe a few weeks away from it all would clear her head and her heart. Maybe.

Scott was arranging arguments in his mind to the rumble and hush of the surf, when he heard a scattering of rocks and happy babble. Someone was coming. Turning, the fighter pilot saw his brother John, with small Janie clinging tight to his neck. The astronaut's jacket, cummerbund and tie were gone, and there were little jelly handprints all over his shirt front.

"Hey," Scott greeted him. "Had enough family togetherness?"

John shrugged.

"I guess. It was getting pretty emotional in there, and then Junior started fussing, so I left. Babies are supposed to fall asleep by 10:00, aren't they?"

Outraged, Janie began wriggling in her father's arms.

"Daddy! I's not a baby! I could walk now!"

Her big eyes were quite dark in the moonlight, her expression deeply hurt.

"Tell Unca Scott I's not a baby, daddy! Tell him!"

"Okay," John agreed easily. "You're not a baby, but you're still damn noisy. Sorry. Dang noisy."

"Tha's okay, daddy. I know you didn' mean a say it, 'cause tha's a bad, bad word, an' we don' say bad words no more."

John was under strict orders to clean up his act, including language. He required frequent reminders, though, which Janie was glad to provide. Scott would have liked to hold the child, but she was still wary of most non-crewmates. Only TinTin and Gordon could lift and cuddle the girl, who was gradually adjusting to life on Earth.

Together, Scott and John walked to a safer bit of beach, where Janie's father could set her down.

"One of these days," said John, watching his daughter wobble intently around him, "I'm going to stop overreacting to stupid shi… stuff, like scents. Someone was doing laundry the other day, and this fabric softener air blast got vented outside. I stood around like an idiot for five minutes, enjoying the smell. If someone hadn't turned off the dryer, I'd probably still be there. Everything smells the same after a few months in space. But here…"

He smiled a little.

"I get distracted just walking past the kitchen."

Understandably. Grandma hadn't yet broached the subject of John's emergency wedding and sudden child. Probably, she was waiting for a long talk with Linda, who was almost as guarded with the rest of the family as Janie. In the meantime, though, she overfed all three of them.

"Eh. You'll get used to it," Scott promised, reaching a hand out to steady small Jane. She clung to him for a moment before setting off again, face as intent as an athlete's.

"…Or else you'll be back in Thunderbird 5, tinkering with that computer of yours."

It was an opening, but John didn't react. Not to that one, or mention of dad or Doctor Floyd. Some things, he just wouldn't talk about. Switching topics, Scott said,

"You know that kid who held me up? Julio?"

"Yeah."

"Well… I was thinking that maybe I'd take him under my wing, sort of. Provide lawyers and a proper education. Move his family to better housing, even. Stupid, huh?"

John stepped closer to Janie, who was throwing big handfuls of sand at the oncoming waves.

"No," he decided, shaking his head. "Sort of unrealistic, but not stupid. Anytime you have a chance to make a difference, you probably ought to try."

"Sure," Scott agreed heavily. "And if you've got any idea how to make a difference with Cindy, let me know."

John collected the not-a-baby, who by this time was well gummed with spray and black sand.

"She likes to argue," he mused. "Maybe you could try not agreeing with her."

Scott blinked.

"What if she leaves?"

"She already has."

Scott folded both arms across his chest.

"You've been in touch with her?"

"We talk, yeah."

"And…?"

"She loves you."

Why, exactly, he felt like something broke wide open and released a hundred thousand gallons of sorrow, Scott couldn't say.

"So… why'd she cut out? The kid thing, again?"

"Partly," John allowed, shifting his daughter for a ride upon his shoulders. "Females are foreign territory, Scott. Marrying one doesn't make me lord high ambassador to the species."

"Understood, little brother. But… if I tell you something, you'll tell her?"

They began heading back along the strand, for it was nearly midnight.

"Yeah. If you want me to," John replied.

Once again, partial success. Said Scott,

"Okay, tell her I love her, and that when she's figured things out, I'll be waiting, in a… competitive, argumentative, way.

John chuckled. He couldn't look around very well, because Janie's small head was resting sleepily atop his own, but…

"I'll shout it at her," he promised.

Nothing like a brother to help get the job done. Scott was just about to say 'thank you', when a flare of red, green and cobalt-blue fireworks shrilled into the air and began bursting above the house.

Janie stirred a bit, raising her head to say,

"Look, daddy… 'Splosions."

"Yeah," he nodded. "Happy New Year."

They paused halfway up the path to watch Brains' annual display. Scott, hands deep in his trousers pockets, said,

"Let's hope it's a good one."