Epilogue: Part 5

Elsewhen, Thunderbird 5-

Throughout the geosynchronous satellite, nothing moved. Here and there, a tiny light winked forlornly, or the sparking, ragged edge of a shorn wire glowed. Otherwise, nothing. Thunderbird 5… this thunderbird 5… had become a tomb; airless and empty, except for the corpse which floated beside its now-useless control panel.

Explosive decompression had killed its sole occupant, freezing his flesh and boiling the blood in his heart, arteries and veins. He'd perished quickly, though; his sorrowing family might have taken some comfort in that. The near-John Tracy of this universe had barely had time to react to those shrilling alarm klaxons before the first meteoroids struck, tearing long gashes through the hull of the ring and central unit, both. A brief SOS, a final goodbye, and then silence, forever.

His family was already on its way, speeding into orbit in the bright red dart that was Thunderbird 3. Too late, of course, though some of them (Alan and Gordon, especially) clung to the hope that John had somehow found refuge… perhaps in a sealed storage compartment… and was merely incommunicado. The others were more realistic. They knew full well what they were likely to find in the shattered hulk of Thunderbird 5, and they grieved.

Call after desperate call was made; from Thunderbird 3, from TinTin Kyrano at the Island Base... even the World Space Station, Freedom, tried reaching him. All for nothing. No response.

However…

Something did begin to happen, around fifteen minutes after the initial hull breach. Something utterly alien to this universe and its slightly altered version of International Rescue. On the bulkhead nearest the floating corpse, a faint glow set up. Hardly noticeable, at first, it soon began to intensify. From dull gleam, to bright shine, to searing glare, as though someone had fired an energy weapon at the bulkhead's opposite side.

1010… 1001…

Metal ran in silken, shimmering rivulets, but it did not spatter or drift away. Instead, the molten stuff flowed together, changing phase and atomic number repeatedly, until something had been created; something about a meter long and vaguely insectoid in outline, with myriad jointed limbs and a rippling, shape-changing surface.

1000… 111…

Had the station's comm pickup been focused in that direction, it would have had difficulty spotting the intruder, for this metalloid 'insect' warped light waves with ease. It was quite invisible, further hidden from detection by an oddly corrupted version of Shadowbot. The station's fading sensors saw nothing. Its comm displayed only the face of a soundlessly pleading Jeff Tracy.

110… 101

The intruder swarmed silently over the bulkhead toward John's frozen corpse. Extruding and absorbing limbs, altering and shifting to match its scorched background, the probe-like thing skittered close, then reabsorbed all of its extremities, adjusted its power source to the production of dark energy, and pushed away from the wall. Vents and nozzles opened along its perimeter as needed, its internal algorithms producing the varying fields and particles which allowed it to navigate. Sometimes diamagnetic effects were used. Sometimes gravitons or liberated quarks. Always, it made forward progress, at last reaching and clasping the body's marble-hard right arm.

100… 11…

Multiple extrusion, again, and all in the perfect, deathly silence of space. Long legs with jagged pincers took hold on a blue uniform sleeve, drawing the probe-thing close against its target. A laser next formed itself, rising mantis-like from the intruder's roiling surface. Swiftly, mechanically efficient, the probe used its laser to sever the corpse's right hand, wrist comm and all. It sliced completely through flesh, muscle and bone in a scant seven seconds, creating a small cyclone of frozen blood.

10… 01…

Just as Thunderbird 3 began docking procedures, the intruder took hold of the stolen member and formed an interior compartment in which to conceal it. Now came a sudden bright flash of cross-spectrum light (whatever wavelength you saw in, you'd have been blinded; put it that way). And then, the probe vanished, all at once and completely, leaving no trace of its presence but a seared bulkhead and a carbonized, disintegrating corpse.

00…

Indeed, a theft had occurred.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Tracy Island, 6:30 PM, the office-

Scott looked swiftly around at 'his' team, trying to gauge their mood and probable response to Jeff Tracy's questions.

Hackenbacker seemed fidgety, examining the contents of each turned-out pocket, and repeatedly polishing his glasses on his left sleeve. Virgil was tense, obviously trying hard to look unworried. He kept crossing and re-crossing his legs, though, which tended to spoil all that attempted nonchalance.

Meanwhile, John sat slumped in a chair he'd pulled slightly away from the others, forearms resting upon his thighs, hands loosely clasped, head down. Scott simply stood; too apprehensive to sit before he knew which direction this meeting was going to take. As it happened, he had good reason to worry.

"First of all," Jeff began sternly, "let me say that as director… leader... of this organization, I place a high premium on personal responsibility and total honesty."

Scott went suddenly rigid, feeling as though he'd been summoned to the squadron commander's office on court martial charges. Almost, he stood at attention.

"Second," his father went on, "I want to let you gentlemen know that I've just finished reviewing Thunderbird 2's computerized flight log and cabin voice recorder."

Scott felt something very cold and sickening-heavy plunge through the pit of his stomach.

'The cabin voice recorder…' his mind repeated hollowly, 'God. He's got everything we said, all mission long, on tape.'

"Third," Jeff went on, heavy-hearted, rather than accusing. "I do not appreciate, nor do I think I've merited, being lied to."

He pushed a button on his desk top. All at once, piped in clear as mood music, the rumbling, beeping cockpit noises of Thunderbird 2 surged through the office. Then came Virgil's words, just loud enough to be heard:

"What'd you do, crack a rib?"

Followed by John, sounding flat and stiff as a grade-school pencil sketch.

"No. I'm good. What do you need, Virgil?"

Before an excuse could be raised, or an angle chosen, Jeff continued,

"That was just after takeoff from Island Base, according to the CVR's timer. This was later, after your landing at the Pole."

Another button press, and the ambient sounds changed, swelling to become the hollow grumble of 2's giant pod. And next, like the court replay of a videotaped confession, Scott heard his own voice,

"I notice you're favoring your left side, John. Break something?"

"No. Well… I got beat to crap on takeoff, but I'm okay. Just a little sore."

"You're sure? Because I can switch you out with Virgil, leave you minding the Bird while he and I go after those refugees."

"I'm good."

Their father cut off the audio feed with another sharp button jab, leaving his office brittle-silent, filled now with cooling air and gathering darkness.

"There is also an argument... which I will not replay... between Dr. Hackenbacker and what seems to be a female physician, over the proper course of treatment for broken ribs and a collapsed lung; John's condition, as it turns out."

He looked around at them all, his narrowed, exhausted brown eyes sweeping from face to face, and on to the silver-blond top of John's head.

"Well?" Jeff demanded.

After a deep breath and hard swallow, Scott spoke up.

"Sir, I take full responsibility."

"I'm sure you do," Jeff replied, levering himself to his feet with two hands to the desk top. "Unfortunately for your brother, I disagree."

"Dad, it was my idea to…" Virgil began hurriedly.

But Jeff cut him off with a sharp chopping gesture, ignoring Brains' attempted comments, as well. Instead, once everyone else had grown quiet again, he walked around the desk to stand before John.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

A lot, actually, but none of it seemed to fall into sensible order. Words melted suddenly away, leaving John unable to respond, except with a miserable shrug.

"I see. So… you injured yourself, lied about it to your brothers, endangered a vital mission, and then collapsed, whereupon Scott and Virgil recruited civilians attempting to cover for you… and all you can do is shrug?"

To Scott, their father sounded more hurt and betrayed than angry, though John couldn't detect the difference. Taking a huge risk, the fighter pilot cut in.

"Sir, I can explain."

Jeff turned to regard his oldest son. Recalling, maybe, that Scott was supposed to serve as liaison, Jeff gave him a tight, reluctant nod.

"Go ahead."

"John, you can correct me if I'm wrong, but here's how I see it: Dad, the seat he was placed in faced the wrong direction for a fast, hard-G takeoff. He cracked his ribs going up, didn't think it was too serious, at first, and didn't want to risk having you abort the mission. About right, so far?"

John straightened up slightly, scraping for words; for 'personal responsibility'. Looking from Scott to their father, then back again, he said,

"No. What happened is… I broke the ribs taking off, but I didn't complain because no one else would have, and, um... I didn't want to seem weak. I tried hiding the injury. It got worse, and I collapsed… had to be treated on site by Dr. Floyd. As for the rest, employing civilians was my idea, mostly. We needed the help."

What had Scott said, back at the infirmary?

"Yeah. So, Virgil and Scott only lied to keep me out of trouble. Doctor Hackenbacker, too."

For some weird reason, like TinTin, Ken, Pete McCord and Grandma, they all gave a damn about someone who pretty much didn't.

"That's it," John finished quietly. "End of story."

At that point, someone else stepped forward. Hackenbacker had, in his own mind, the shakiest position. Being an employee, rather than a son, he could be summarily fired. Nevertheless,

"M- Mr. Tracy, no real harm was, ah… was done. I- in fact, your sons and I were, ah… were g- given the cards and n- numbers of many potential v- volunteers. You would, I th- think, be, ah… be proud to employ any of th- the scientists who tended the tractor while S- Scott and John rescued those crevasse survivors. The m- mission was a success, Mr. Tracy. We mustn't lose, ah… lose sight of th- that."

Perhaps he'd find employment elsewhere, though Brains doubted that he'd ever do anything else that mattered half so much. Bracing himself, Hackenbacker managed a thin 'Well, I tried,' smile in the general direction of John.

The young man shifted a bit in his seat, uncomfortably considering a new idea. He'd been lied for, and now defended, by his brothers and Ike. Evidently, they saw something he didn't. But, what the hell, huh? Since they were making an effort, maybe he should, as well?

Very carefully, John made himself face his grim father.

"It's my fault, sir. I screwed up, and I apologize. It won't happen again."

Equally cautious, aware that their relationship consisted of little more than hoar-frost and shifting sand, Jeff nodded.

"That's all I wanted to hear, son. I appreciate your integrity. Now… let's move on."