Lots to report! My niece has graduated A-school and is engaged to be married! XD Lord willing and the creek don't rise, I'll be able to head out to Texas to attend her wedding. She's the one that Janey was based on, back in the day. :') Edited more.

26

Tracy Island, amid craggy outcrops pounded by roaring currents and thundering surf, hard by the leeward emergency landing pad-

Hackenbacker faced into stinging spray and glaring late sun as he slid-scrambled-hopped his way down from tunnel and pad to that narrow black beach. A man of ideas, not actions… best friends with a robot and astronaut… 'Brains' struggled to make the descent without killing himself in the process. A great deal of flailing and scrabbling ensued. A few cuts, many bruises.

He might have made use of the Hood's parked luxury shuttle, had Brains known how to unlock and fly the thing. The Hood, himself, was emphatically down; bludgeoned unconscious by the fourfold impact of tool-wielding drones, slimy crash foam, mag-levitation and Scott Tracy's fist. The crafty psion would need to be placed in restraint, then handed off to the proper authorities, as International Rescue had no detention facilities.

That the Hood might know something of Jeff Tracy's fate made it doubly… trebly… important to get him straight to a GDF interrogator. But that would come later. Here and now, there were jagged damp rocks to negotiate, on a thin, winding path that would have challenged a housefly or gecko.

Scott crouched on a boulder, below, still half in shock from his crash and mental possession. More than the Hood, Brains hurried for him, because unseen internal damage could strike in a flash, hemorrhaging organs and filling the lungs up with blood. The downed pilot would need a quick med-scan, then transport indoors for treatment.

Max could have done the job faster, being designed to explore the surface of any world, whatever its pressure, composition or temperature range. Unfortunately, the bold little robot was occupied, industriously binding and dragging the Hood. He hadn't a limb or a grasper to spare.

In any case, Brains was the one who reached Scott Tracy first. Taking a deep breath for courage, the engineer braced both his feet and leaned over. This close to the water, he not only heard but could feel the rumbling crash of each monstrous, oncoming surge. Keeping his eyes on the pilot's face, Brains extended a thin, shaking hand. He intended to help the young man off of that wave-battered rock and onto the access path, forgetting that Scott's solid mass was likely to pull them both over.

"T- Take hold, and then, ah… then j- jump!" he called, over the noise of that raging sea.

Scott dug the fingers of one hand into a crack in the shuddering stone. Stretched far over white, spuming water to reach for Brains' hand. Missed once, then connected, allowing the engineer to steady his vault from rock to shore. Sort of.

Unbalanced, they would have tumbled and fallen right into the ocean. But a heartbeat before they went swimming, a couple of silver fueling drones buzzed across to help out, adding their anti-grav field to Scott's shuffling, scrambling leap.

Brains grimaced as the two machines aided them back to firm ground. He steeled himself mentally, ready for Scott's faint praise and brisk dismissal. Only, rather than grunting "thanks" and then striding off, the fighter pilot took a moment to talk. Shook his hand and smiled even, saying,

"Thank you for coming to help me, Brains. I owe you one, and I'm sorry for ditching Dad's Bird. Lots going on, but… sorry for a lot of things."

Personal interaction wasn't the engineer's primary skill; not on a barren cliffside, still dripping with emerald crash foam and spray. Nevertheless, he tried on a cautious smile.

"Y- You are most, ah… most w- welcome, Scott… and in d- destruction lies opportunity. I had intended to, ah… to upgrade Th- Thunderbird 1, in any case. Now I shall s- simply rebuild, to an even h- higher standard of, ah… of p- perfection."

Indeed, the thought excited all of his fondest design instincts, as plans for a faster, longer-range Thunderbird flashed through that quicksilver mind. Didn't have much time for shouted conversation, then; what with scanning the pilot's vital signs and supervising the Hood's temporary restraint system.

Scott let him work; content to rest for a bit, as a trio of GDF heli-jets appeared on the horizon, their noise at first drowned by the ocean. Must've lost consciousness at some point, because the rest was a blur of whining impellers, loud voices and then someone's powerful grip, loading him onto a stretcher. Comm-squawk and barked commands, engine vibration and fuel smells… it all added up to safety and comfort, as far as Scott was concerned.

He wasn't hurting much, yet… that would come later… but he felt so utterly drained. So completely unable to fill the Colonel's size-14 shoes.

"Not sure I can do this, Dad," Scott whispered inside of himself, where nobody else could listen, or judge. "He was right. I'm not you. Won't ever be… but I can d*mn well try, and maybe helping Grandma and Lee run IR, means keeping you somehow alive… God, I sound like I'm drunk!"

Then, laughing a little, deep there inside of himself, Scott Tracy passed into darkness and sleep.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Much later, back at the main roundhouse hangar-

When, some days afterward, Thunderbird 3 glided home, her crew found Scott and Gordon already up and healing. The Hood was gone, taken away with his impounded shuttle by Colonel Casey and several dozen GDF troopers.

The larger bits of Thunderbird 1 had been dredged up for study, while Brains designed something much better. A few tattered shreds of biodegradable foam still smeared the leeward shore, but you would've had to squint pretty hard to spot them.

Dr. Hackenbacker had placed all of his maintenance drones back on docile "I, Robot" mode; present to serve and repair, not defend. (For the moment, at least.) Captain Taylor helped here and there, itching to leave for Base Shadow-Alpha, but wanting to greet "Jason", Alvin" and "Tina," still more. Family didn't grow on no trees, after all. Not even out in the great state of Texas.

Scott, Virgil, Gordon, Grandma, Brains and Lee, they all had to wait a bit in the hangar, because John never skipped any steps of his postflight. (Difference between a live astronaut and a dead one? Attention to detail. Adherence to holy-writ checklists. Drilled all that into Alan, too. Not Kay, though.)

Anyhow, when they did finally emerge, the backslaps, fierce hugs and shakings were all that John had been dreading; all that made home what it was. Noisy, confusing, emotion packed. High gravity, too.

Had John not been proud (and a Tracy) he might have had trouble standing up under that onslaught of welcoming family. Seriously, he'd been victory-piled on the baseball field less roughly than that.

Everyone wanted to know what had happened. Why the cloaked side-trip? Had he really been just teaching Alan and Kayo to fly? Had the kids been thoroughly disciplined yet, or would Scott, Lee and Grandma have to lay down more of the law?

It was too much for the quiet redhead, who quickly grew cool and remote. Overwhelmed, he had to get away. Be by himself for a while. Promised to explain it all soon, handing Brains a small memory drive as down-payment.

"The Mechanic," he told them, kissing Grandma's cheek and then stalking off. "Long story, requiring copious beer. Thanks. I'll be somewhere else out of touch, if nobody needs me."

Right. Not much had changed, except everything. No Dad meant that each backslap and welcoming hug had been stained with his reason for coming back home: Jeff Tracy's complete disappearance. Maybe his actual death.

To Grandma, John had whispered, "I'm sorry," and even, "I love you." The others could figure it out from the fact he'd shown up.

Home was a weird, gutted place, missing its central figure. There was no Dad to talk over maneuvers… to drink or trade stories with. Just dense, humid air and gravity like a coat full of lead. No flight, here. No nothing but plodding along in two Goddam dimensions, dodging the people who loved him.

Yeah. Cyclones of stuff to feel and think about, so John pulled his default stunt and just crammed it away for never. First order of business, once he'd finally managed "alone", was a long and very hot shower, something the astronaut hadn't experienced in over 2.47 years. (Mars' sputtering, lukewarm brine didn't count; tasting rusty and leaving you crusted with salt.) Next came that promised cold beer and an auto-chef pizza, consumed out on the balcony of his old bedroom suite, with only some curious birds for company. Tried to nap for a bit but felt weirdly squeezed lying down in a bed. Like it was pushing him up at the ceiling, or something.

By nightfall, after getting himself together, John was ready to face the traditional beach-side conference. Ready to talk about what had very nearly killed… not just he and the kids… but the frozen Mechanic, as well. It was one hairy h*ll of a story, starting with Ceres, itself.