The silence returned as they flew back to Tracy Island. Not as oppressive as during the flight from the canyon, but heavy enough to be uncomfortable–and to inhibit conversation.

Once again, Virgil focused on flying Thunderbird Two. Not that he needed to concentrate on the 'bird. He could fly her if he was half asleep, and still not touch a single palm tree on her runway. But he felt numb and frozen, much as he had when he'd found out about the takeover on Five and the other stations. That absence of feeling alternated with a slow fury–both that Gordon had done such an idiotic thing, and that no one had told him.

Alan was mercifully quiet. He occasionally glanced at his older brother, but refrained from any comments.

There was a different sort of silence from the other side of Two's cockpit. The seat Gordon should have occupied remained empty. Exactly where he was hiding was immaterial at the moment–somewhere in Two. His absence only fueled additional outrage. That Gordon hadn't said anything, that he'd let them all believe it was the terrorists that had–

Virgil flexed his hand, trying to stifle his anger. Now he wished he'd landed a few more punches on the asshole who'd come aboard Three. Gordon was eighteen months younger than him, and that situation was a hell of a lot to foist on a kid. Which was how he still saw Gord yet, despite his having been a working member of International Rescue for two years. His pique abated somewhat. And, Virgil reminded himself, you don't know the particulars of the situation.

Neither did Alan, at least from what Virgil had been able to worm out of his youngest brother. Gordon had confessed shortly before the three of them left the hospital, only to Alan and Scott. Alan didn't know if Dad knew, if Scott had told him yet. Gordon was supposed to call Scott when they got to the hotel. And they'd gotten the summons for the rescue just after they'd checked into the hotel.

From the hospital to the hotel. From there to the island. All during the rescue. Gordon didn't say anything, and Alan didn't say anything, and Scott didn't say anything. The anger flared again, as Tracy Island slowly filled the viewscreen. And I thought he was worried about John.

He wasn't being logical with his anger, and he didn't care. Gordon had screwed up on the mission, had almost caused Two to pull that bus off the ledge. Had almost killed the driver and seven kids. And me. And there was the essence of his anger, the one fact that kept pushing itself to the forefront of his thoughts.

The softest of thumps announced that Two had settled on her transporter. Virgil cut the VTOLs, and waited while Alan activated the transporter. He hesitated only momentarily, then transferred control back to Virgil.

Any other time, Virgil would have razzed Alan about it, as well as his current record-holding status. This time–his thoughts still swirling around Gordon and his actions–he merely acknowledged the transfer, automatically backing the paired vehicles into Two's hanger.

The transporter lurched, as it ran over something on the launch pad. Thunderbird Two answered with the slightest of hiccups, shifting as she did sometimes when she was not quite settled properly on the transporter. The interior darkened as they retreated into the mountain.

Alan glanced out of the front viewports as Two shifted, curious as to what the transporter had run over. On the far end of the runway, the fake palms began their recovery. Straightening up two by two, shrinking the visual aspect of the area, they hid the unusual size of the runway.

Two had almost retreated into the mountain when he spotted the gap, looking like a missing tooth in a smile. One of the fake palms lay across the runway. And across from that gap, its partner tree wobbled drunkenly, having lost its counterweight. The transporter came to a halt, and the hanger's doors closed.

Alan grinned. The opportunity was too good to pass up, and he turned to his brother. One look at Virgil's set face, though, and he swallowed the wisecrack. Discretion was definitely the better part of hassle-your-brother.

A second shudder announced that Two's landing legs had touched down, and the leviathan rose above the transporter. There was an answering rumble as the sled moved out from under her.

"Finish her up, Alan," Virgil said curtly, heading for the pod area. An electronic squeal sounded from the control panel, and he halted, glancing back at the panel.

"Loading arm hatch," said Alan. And I bet I know who.

Virgil's expression darkened. "Damn him." He turned abruptly, and headed toward that hatch.

Alan watched him leave. Gordon's self-preservation instincts were impeccable, given his perchance for practical jokes, and he was probably halfway across the island by now. Still, even though he could understand Virgil's anger–he'd also thought the bus was a goner–his sympathy was with his next-up brother.

He dug out the shutdown checklist from the chair pocket where he'd stuffed it, and starting working through it. The hatch indicator flared again, and he checked his watch, and figured out how much of a head start Gordon had.

The maintenance robots were swarming about Two by the time he'd finished the checklist, their odd clicks and squeaks echoing off the bulkheads. It had taken him longer than he should have, but at least no one would fault him for leaving the work unfinished. One last glance around the area, and a trip to the left-side chair, where he replaced the checklist. The darn thing crumpled up and wouldn't go into the pocket, so he bent down to shove it in.

"Get in there," he muttered at the pages. Since he was angled that way anyway, he continued around the backside of the chair, sliding along the bulkhead to the cockpit entryway. Intent on his thoughts, he swung into the doorway, and-

"Oh, shit!"

"Jeez-"

The two figures sprang back from each other. Heart hammering, Alan staggered back toward the pilot's chair, grabbing it for support. His knees wobbled dangerously, and he collapsed against the chair, gasping for breath.

Gordon didn't look much better. Braced against the doorway's frame, breathing as though he'd just finished a desperate sprint, the color slowly returned to his face. He turned, his back against the side of the doorway, and slowly sank to the deck, his own gasps beginning to sound strangely mirthful.

Alan felt the snickers welling up inside him, exploding into whoops of laughter. We must look like a pair of idiots. The chair's arm clipped him under the ribs, and he rolled off it, landing with a thump that sent him and Gordon into another paroxysm of hilarity. Helpless to do anything but lay there and laugh, Alan did just that.

When he'd settled down, and caught his breath, he rolled over, pushing himself up on hands and knees. He straightened up, and looked over at his brother.

Gordon dragged a sleeve across his eyes, then grinned at Alan. "You scared the shit outta me," he said, "I thought you left with Virgil."

"I thought you left before," Alan retorted.

"Yeah, well," Gordon's smile faded, "You were supposed to."

Alan sat back on his heels, his own expression sobering. "Why?"

Gordon sighed. "He's got a right to be pissed," he said flatly, "I screwed up. Big time." He focused his gaze on the ceiling; it was easier than looking at Alan. "And not just once."

"But-"

"Seven people," Gordon said softly, his voice without inflection. "Virgil, too." He paused, remembering. "And if the platform cables didn't hold, nine more." He wrapped his arms around his drawn-up knees.

What about you? A chill traced the bones of Alan's spine. "T-ten," he stuttered, "You . . . you were on the platform, too."

Gordon shrugged, and Alan felt the cold gather into a knot in his stomach. He shifted position, settling himself cross-legged on the deck, with the command chair at his back. He couldn't leave, not without crawling over Gordon, curled in the doorway. And something told him that he shouldn't. Not yet, anyway. "Like Dad said, we can't save everybody," he said cautiously.

The sound from Gordon was indistinct–it could have been a snort or a sob. "We aren't supposed to kill them," he said, his voice giving no hint either. He folded his arms on his knees, his gaze still fixed overhead.

"With Virgil, that's debatable," Alan muttered, remembering their altercation before this whole mess began, "Scott, too. And even John can-" Flushing, he stopped, and glanced at Gordon.

"John." Gordon's smile was flat and lifeless, as if he were simply going through the motion. It sent another shiver through Alan. "I screwed that up, too." His head dropped, forehead resting on his arms.

Alan hesitated, seriously wishing he could run yelling for Dad, Onaha, Kyrano, anybody. Even Virgil. He wondered if he could find the communications switch by touch, but realized it was on the other side of the chair. That's out. Then he remembered his communicator, and surreptitiously set it for "Send" only, hoping Scott would figure it out.

He crawled across the deck, parking himself on the opposite side of the doorframe, unsure of what to do next. For a moment, he thought Gordon was crying, and the idea shook him. He couldn't ever remember any of his brothers crying–at least not in his presence. They were just too . . . together to do something like that.

But Gordon's body was still, his breathing barely discernable. Too still. Tentatively, Alan reached for his brother, touching Gordon's elbow as though he were fire. "Gord?"

He jerked his hand back when the lights dimmed. The maintenance robots, having finished their work, had left the ship. Sensing this, Two powered down, leaving only emergency lighting, and those areas where she still sensed a human presence.

Gordon had looked up when the lights went out, his face dry and emotionless. Alan sighed with relief, then held his breath when his brother spoke.

"He had John in front of him, choking him," Gordon said. His voice was still without inflection, making his recitation that much more eerie. "And the knife . . . he was cutting him. I thought maybe if they . . . if I just threatened them . . . they'd let him go." His voice caught, then steadied. "I didn't want to depressurize Five. John said it could happen, and I knew they wouldn't let us get to the spacesuits."

He looked at Alan, not really seeing him, and Alan shivered. It was as if Gordon wasn't there–sitting on the deck of Two's cockpit–but back on Thunderbird Five, reliving the takeover. Alan risked a quick look at his communicator, and wondered if Scott was monitoring this.

"It wouldn't stop," Gordon continued, almost dreamily, "He kept . . . I should've told Dad right away, the first time. But John didn't say anything . . . I didn't know until he. . . ." He paused, and shuddered. "He said he forgot to duck. And the antibiotic, they figured out we were brothers. There wasn't enough, and the big one–Brad–he kept the other stuff." His voice dropped to a whisper. "They were going to kill one of us if we didn't get the weapons activated. And John. . . ." He closed his eyes, and dropped his head onto his knees, muffling his voice, "It's all my fault."

Alan watched him nervously. There'd been times when he'd seen his father and brothers down, when a mission hadn't gone as expected. Scott got moody, John got quieter. Virgil buried himself in music, and Gordon swam. And Dad . . . well, he wasn't sure what Dad did. But this was different, he'd never seen any of them act this way. It scared him.

Briefly, he wondered if he shouldn't suggest that they head for the pool. Or maybe even the ocean. Some instinct told him that a mere swim wasn't the solution. What it didn't tell him was what to do, what would help Gordon. He reached toward his brother, then indecisively drew back his hand.

"Alan."

The soft voice from the shadows momentarily panicked him, as if he'd been caught somewhere he shouldn't have been. To his surprise, Gordon hadn't seemed to hear it. Alan stood, peering into the shadows, and tried to identify the speaker, for there were times that each of his brothers sounded like Dad. Especially John, a first-class mimic.

"Turn off your communicator."

He did so. Suddenly shaky, Alan steadied himself on the doorframe, then carefully stepped around Gordon. Concerned that he was abandoning his brother, he glanced apologetically at Gordon. Then he looked back into the shadows, unable to ask the question.

"It's okay, Alan. Just go."

Relieved to surrender the situation to someone else, and not wanting to see the resolution, Alan fled the area.