"Try it again."
Seated at Thunderbird Five's main control panel, Gordon–with Brains looking over shoulder–started the diagnostic programs again. Over the last three days, Five's communication computer had developed an aggravating habit of flicking off during communications, in a seeming random pattern. So far, it had been just an annoyance. But International Rescue couldn't afford this minor inconvenience developing into a major problem.
Gordon watched the scrolling of the diagnostics screen, and yawned. Nothing was showing off, out-of-kilter, or otherwise wrong. Nothing, except for a blink of the screen, which was followed by the crash of the diagnostic program. He sighed exaggeratedly, then looked over at Brains– who looked decidedly odd in the brown-trimmed jumpsuit he wore in the field–waiting for his analysis. As odd as John looked in Three's flight suit, he added, conveniently ignoring the fact that he wore John's customary gold.
"It shouldn't do that," Brains said, frowning at the display.
"Tell the computer that," Gordon said, petulantly. He rubbed his eyes, then typed in the reset commands for the program.
"Scott, John, anything?" Brains reached over Gordon's arm, tapping in additional code.
Squashed in a makeshift pod created by moving floorboards in order to access the conduits below, and trying to monitor both conduits and computer screen, Scott shook his head. "Nothing," he said, "I didn't even catch the crash." He stood, stretching his tall frame, then reached over to the keyboard of his laptop, resetting the program.
"Nothing here either," John said, tucked in his own "pod" on the opposite side of the control center. He glanced at his own laptop, and added, "There goes the diagnostic."
Gordon glanced over at his brother. "It crashed two minutes ago," he said.
"No, it didn't," John said, hoisting himself to deck level.
"A relay delay?" Puzzled, Brains looked from Gordon to John, then headed over to the latter.
"Hey, Brains," Scott cracked, "you're a poet. D'you know that?" Ignoring the groans from his brothers, he climbed out of his "pod," and walked over behind Gordon. "You sure you didn't load some game on the computer and rewrite the code?" he asked.
Gordon leaned back in the chair, looking upside down at his oldest brother. "That's Virgil's job," he grinned.
"Oh, that's right," Scott said, "Yours is setting the-" he put both hands on his brother's shoulders, while his foot engaged the switch that released the chair from its rails "-galley on fire." He pushed down on both the switch and Gordon, overbalancing the chair, and stepped back. Gordon and chair crashed to the floor.
"Hey, do you mind?" John said. He scowled at his brothers, then quipped, "Kill him quietly, please."
Gordon came up swinging, and they wrestled for a few moments. But while Gordon could look at or down on most of his brothers, Scott's four extra inches of height translated to additional leverage all around. He subdued his younger brother in a headlock, holding Gordon momentarily just to prove that he could, before releasing him.
As soon as Scott relaxed his grip, Gordon abruptly bent forward, flipping his brother over his shoulders. Unprepared for the move, Scott hit the floor with a resounding thump. The expression on his face caused both his brothers to break out laughing, and even Brains smiled.
"You've been working out," Scott gasped from the floor.
"Y'think?" Gordon panted, straightening up. He hadn't been completely sure the maneuver would work, but the results satisfied him. He grinned. "Been practicing on Alan."
Scott extended his hand, indicating for Gordon to help him up. Gordon eyed him suspiciously, and backed off instead. Scott chuckled, and rolled over, pushing himself up on his knees.
"He's learning," John commented.
The communications link beeped. "Tracy Island to Thunderbird Five," said their father's voice. "How's it going up there?"
Sheepishly, Scott got to his feet. "D'you think he heard?" he asked of the room in general. He flipped the comm switch, and Jeff's image flickered onto the screen. "No luck, Dad. We haven't found the problem yet."
Jeff studied his son's image in the view screen. Flushed and slightly breathless, Scott was surreptitiously tugging at his uniform, straightening it. Beyond him, unaware that he was on the view screen, Gordon was doing the same. The overturned chair lay between them. Jeff shook his head in exasperation, and decided against pursuing that particular subject. "Brains?"
Scott moved off screen, replaced by Brains. "The diagnostics program is not responding," he said, in his characteristic stutter, "I'm going to have to download it to our computers there and recheck the code. Until we know that the source is not there, we won't be able to pinpoint the problem with the communications."
Jeff reached over on his desk, tapping the appropriate commands onto his computer. "Ready to download," he said.
"I would prefer to bring it down on a removable storage device," Brains said, "It's possible that we could have picked up something on the system here, and I'd rather keep it isolated."
"All right, Brains," Jeff acknowledged, "I'll see if I can get an appropriate chunk of disc space roped off." He smiled–an exasperated, father's smile. "Tell them not to kill each other too badly. Tracy Island out." The screen went blank.
"How does he do that?" Scott asked. He retrieved the chair, and replaced it on its rails.
"ESP," said Gordon.
"Past history?" John offered, coming behind them with the RSD. He put it into the drive, and typed a series of commands. Straightening, he looked at his brothers and Brains. "Somebody want to finish this download?"
In spite of their unique operating system, each of the Thunderbirds still required two separate identifying codes for major uploads and downloads to their main computer. Each of their pilots–as well as Brains–had his own code, allowing for accurate traces of who had done what to a given computer. Brains completed the sequence, and the drive whirred into action.
"I think I'll stay up here," John said, thoughtfully, watching the drive, "Maybe we can keep working on this end while you sort out the diagnostic program."
"You sure?" Scott asked, "You're back up here in a week, anyway." He grinned condescendingly at Gordon. "Gordon's a big boy. He can handle it."
Gordon threw a pencil–the only thing within reach–at him. It bounced off Scott and clattered on the floor.
"Yeah, I'm sure," said John, "Go on." He leaned against the bulkhead and grinned. "Besides, it gets me out of 'driver's ed'."
"I knew you had ulterior motives," Scott groused, "Leaving that hotshot to me and Virgil." He looked at his brother accusingly. "You just don't want to admit how rusty you are. Especially on One."
John smiled, innocence personified, and Gordon snickered.
"We'll probably be back up here in a couple of days," Scott continued, "Anything you need up here?" He scowled at Gordon. "A little hot sauce, maybe?"
"Food," Gordon said promptly, virtuously ignoring both comment and look, "and not MRE's."
John went over to the red locker–with its prominent white circle and red cross–next to the airlock, He rifled through its contents. "We're low on antibiotics all around," he called, "But Onaha said something 'bout recertifying the prescriptions," He picked up one bottle, flipping it several times in the air, causing the remaining pills to rattle in the container. "She's supposed to be back by tomorrow."
"How low?"
His brother fired the bottle at him. Deftly, Scott caught it, but was unprepared for the others. Thrown as quickly and precisely as darts, they bombarded him. The bottles fell, rolling and rattling on the floor at his feet.
John smiled, and shook his head in mock pity. "First thing to go is the reflexes," he chided.
Scott ignored him. He picked up two of the bottles–the others escaping his reach at the moment–and automatically checked the labels. Labeled simply "Tracy," with no further identifiers, they bore generic drug names and dosage instructions as prescribed by O. Belagant, DNP. The cephalosporin bottle held two pills, the quinolone bottle, one. He tossed them back to John, then scooped up the remaining bottles.
These had slightly more descriptive labels. The amoxycillin bottle bore four Tracy names; Dad's, his, Virgil's, and Alan's. It was about half full.
The tetracycline bottle had only two names on it, John's and Gordon's. Two pills rattled in the bottle, and Scott stared at it a moment, a distant memory surfacing in his consciousness.
He had been thirteen, or fourteen, something like that. They'd all come down with some childhood disease–he'd forgotten what–something that one normally prescribed antibiotics for. Onaha kept an assortment of broad-spectrum antibiotics on the island, and had prescribed a penicillin-based one for the problem. But John had reacted to the drug, breaking out in hives after about an hour. Gordon did the same shortly thereafter. That in itself didn't seem to be a problem, until John went into anaphylactic shock moments later.
Both his brothers had been airlifted from the island, their father and Onaha accompanying them. Turned out that John was severely allergic to that type of drug, and Gordon was sensitive. He'd never developed the reaction that John had, but Onaha hadn't used penicillin-related drugs on either of them since.
He flipped the bottles back to John, frowning.
John noted the frown. Guessing its cause, he shrugged. "You worry too much," he told Scott, "You'll be back with the refills in a day or two. We're not going to need anything before then."
"I don't know," said Scott lightly, shaking the memory away, "You know how Gordon can get. You might strangle him by then."
"He only does it to annoy, because he knows it teases," John quoted, "We'll be fine."
"Right," said Scott, rolling his eyes. Despite Five's comfortable internal temperature, a chill went down his spine. Ignoring it, he shanghaied Gordon into helping him replace the floor panels.
The RSD ejected from the drive. Scott shoved the last panel in place, and headed for the airlock. He punched in the code for the door mechanism, and the airlock hissed open, displaying the corridor leading to Thunderbird Three. Brains gathered up the drive, and the laptops, then joined Scott. They stepped into the airlock, and closed the door.
Moments later, Thunderbird Three separated from its sister ship, and headed back to Earth.
Author's notes:
DNP: Doctoral Nurse Practitioner. Although the current education level for Nurse Practitioner with prescriptive authority is a Master's Degree plus a special course, there is talk within the nursing profession of making it a Doctoral level position (yes, there are Dr. Nurses. It's an educational level, not exclusive to physicians). I'm personally against it, but am betting that the concept will prevail.