Stay safe and healthy, you guys. Not sure what else to do beside teach from home and write about fictional heroes. Borrowed a phrase from Quora.

30

Later, out on the beach, with night fast drawing the curtains-

A fire had been lit. Fed by wind and occasional tosses of cordwood, it cast a shifting red-orange glow on the people gathered around. Some nursed a beer or cold soda. Most sat on palm logs like slack, resting athletes: leaning forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped loosely before them. Grandma perched on a blanket and lawn chair, with Lee Taylor sprawled half an arm's length away. Tanusha refused to sit, slipping in and out of the group like a thin, wayward cat.

Dinner had been brought out and eaten. Chili and hotdogs, corn chips and Kayo's infamous campfire pizza. The story of what had happened on Ceres had outlasted dinner and sunset, and now the stars had begun to appear, one shy blink at a time, competing with sparks from the fire and lights from the house.

Scott Tracy took a long last pull of his beer, then tossed the empty bottle to Max. Glancing over at John (the last to appear, and still getting his gravity legs) the pilot demanded,

"You got some information about Dad? From the Mechanic, I mean?"

All around them, the music of sea breeze and ocean, of crackling fire and settling jungle filled in their pauses and spackled uncomfortable gaps. There was no real silence on Tracy Island.

John shook clear of some deep, private thought. Jerking his head at Hackenbacker, he said,

"I scanned the Mechanic's digital components in a hurry, then turned it all over to Brains when we got back. Didn't try breaking it down, at the time. Too busy."

Scott nodded, turning back from his red-haired brother to the engineer (incongruously garbed in a spotless white shirt, long trousers and tie).

"Well, Brains? Did you find anything in there about Dad? Was his flight sabotaged? Is he… was there anything there we could use to go find him?"

Hackenbacker cleared his throat self-consciously, never much liking an audience. Took off his glasses and wiped them clean on his shirt sleeve. Then, having marshalled his facts, Brains looked over at Scott and said,

"Th- The Mechanic was, ah… was n- not in full control of himself when, ah… when h- he relayed the s- signal that caused Mr. T- Tracy's engine malfunction. In s- some manner, he was, ah… was f- forced to do the Hood's bidding. The Zero-X experienced a s- sudden, massive, ah… massive p- power surge as a result of that b- broadcast."

"The explosion," mused Virgil, sitting nearby on a weathered old palm log. "But no one's found any trace of Dad's ship. If it really exploded, where are all the pieces? Where's Dad?"

"Maybe the Hood's got him?" supplied Gordon, still looking weary and pale; barely back on his feet after having been shot. "The Hood could've made it look like an explosion, then hijacked the Zero-X to a… a secret base, or something."

Beside the Olympic swimmer, Alan nodded vigorously, saying,

"Maybe he's gonna try using Dad as a hostage! Trade him for one of the Birds, or something!"

Grandma snorted rudely, shaking her head so vehemently that silvery hair flopped into her face.

"There's no way in heck y'r daddy'd let hisself get caught by a cowardly, sneakin' creep like the Hood!" she snapped. "If he ain't here with us, it's because… 'cause he got blasted way further 'n faster than he meant to, is all!"

Scott smiled at their fierce, blue-eyed grandmother; the powerful solder that welded their family together.

"Yes, Ma'am," he agreed. "We'll find him. We've just got to look beyond Earth or even Earth orbit. The clue's in that data John scanned from the Mechanic. It's got to be."

And then, glancing across at their engineer again, he urged,

"That's job one, Brains. Find out exactly what happened, and where Dad ended up."

Hackenbacker took a nervous stab at adjusting his circuit-patterned blue tie.

"Th- That is precisely, ah… precisely m- my intention, Scott. Mr. Tracy showed f- faith in me when, ah… when n- no one else would. I sh- shall not fail him, n- now."

The pilot smiled a little. His own head still ached dully from the force of the Hood's attack. He could understand how being under that villain's compulsion could cause someone to commit a serious crime… but that didn't mean that Scott had forgiven the Mechanic. Not until Dad came home safe. And maybe, not even then.

A green log split open, popped and hissed in the fire, sending a shower of red-golden sparks shooting upward to play with the stars. Alan had said his piece about Ceres, then Kayo had filled in some details. There were still plenty of questions, though, so Scott shifted around on his uneven seat to face John.

"Right. So, what happened next?" he probed. "On the Ark? You got the kids hustled back to Thunderbird 3, and then what?"

The astronaut shrugged, fighting not to look as gravity sick as he felt.

"I did my humble best," he replied, about as clearly as ever.

The truth required some editing. What had happened, in those frantic few minutes after Alan and Kayo had launched themselves out of the hallway and back through that swaying dock tower, was that the situation had plunged alarmingly south. Double-plus ungood. Spectacularly, thudding f*cktangular.

See, Ark 12 had been equipped for emergencies with an old-style gravity generator. The kind that made use of a crushing spherical mass rotating at near relativistic speeds in order to create weak gravitational force. Normal equipment for that day and age.

Only, some homicidal jacktard had shoved the d*mn thing off center, causing it to wobble and thump like a clothes dryer loaded with shoes. Not just on Ceres, as it turned out, but all of the other Arks, too. Being made up mostly of rubble and ice, the shifted asteroids could not put up with such murderous shaking. They would have fallen apart like a hammered egg-pyramid… had John not tracked down, hacked and cut off their power source.

"The grav system was sabotaged and everything started to shake," he summarized vaguely, skipping most of the details. "Only, whoever set up the trap… some pre-conflict terrorist group called Red Path… didn't plan on us. They expected a raft-load of desperate refugees with no tech resources."

Someone, Lee, handed him another cold beer. John grunted his thanks but didn't pop open the drink. Not yet. Too busy explaining.

"Once the grav generators cut off, so did the worst of that shimmy. There was one problem solved… but the rest of that damage… sterilized seeds and embryos, poisoned food and water… yeah. That's still a headache. Don't know who the h*ll Red Path was… sorry, Grandma… but they meant to block any chance of recovery. They meant to destroy whatever was left of humanity."

Scott sighed gustily, rubbing at the back of his neck with one hand. Stifled tension still puddled in every tendon and joint, needing a very long run to relieve it.

"We'll have to get word to Colonel Casey and the World Council," he decided. "They can get to work re-stocking the Arks, in case mankind ever gets into that much trouble, again."

Then, squinting into the firelight, Scott asked another big question.

"What about the Mechanic? Did you ever find any lima beans?"

John smiled that brief, razor-blade smile of his. Shook his head, no.

"Afraid not. Just freeze-dried protein powder and fish stock, out in a heavily destabilised area of the station. I didn't want to risk heading out that far, dragging a frozen machine-man."

"So…?" prodded Virgil, when the astronaut ceased talking to gulp down his beer. "What'd you do with him?"

John stood up and stretched on the black sand beach. Needed to pay the beer tax, most likely.

"I put him in quarantine," he replied. "The ark builders had super-flu to deal with, on top of everything else. They designed a comfortable lockdown facility to hold any refugees who reached Ceres presenting with symptoms. It was secure, safe and with plenty of lurid "no go" warnings plastered all over it. So, I threw him in there, and then shot like h*ll… sorry again, Grandma… headed for Thunderbird 3. Al flew us back. TinTin navigated. I strapped in and went to sleep."

Scott shook his head, snorting in quiet amusement.

"Not exciting enough to keep you awake, Little Brother?" he kidded, as the astronaut edged out of their firelit circle.

John could have told them the truth… that he'd been exhausted to the point of collapse… but it wouldn't have sounded good. Not Tracy. Not Dad. So, he shrugged again, saying,

"Just wanted to hang back and let the kids fly what they stole, without a babysitter looking over their shoulder. Worked, didn't it? Al's a da… really good pilot. Kay had his back. They didn't need me. End of story."

Scott smiled. Maybe it was the beer or the warmth of that fire. Lee's five-alarm chili, or the fact that almost everyone was safe at home, but he felt… confident. Hopeful. Like they were going to pick up the shards of Dad's dream and make it fly as a team. As a family.

Looking past wavering sparks, up at the stars, Scott silently promised whoever would listen: We'll find our Dad. We're not giving up on him, ever. And until then, we'll save every life that we can, just like he'd want us to.

Because International Rescue was more than machines. It was more than money, or Jeff Tracy. International Rescue was hope and heart and the courage to do whatever it took, whatever the danger, always.