FUGUE

A Thunderbirds story in five parts

By Spense

Disclaimer: Don't own them, just borrowing, not making money . . . etc.

Fugue:

1: a dreamlike state of altered consciousness that may last for hours or days 2: a musical form consisting of a theme repeated a fifth above or a fourth below its first statement

Music. An imitative polyphonic composition in which a theme or themes are stated successively in all of the voices of the contrapuntal structure.

In music, a fugue is a type of piece written in counterpoint for several independent musical voices. A fugue begins with its subject (a brief musical theme) stated by one of the voices playing alone. A second voice then enters and plays the subject, while the first voice continues on with a contrapuntal accompaniment. Then the remaining voices similarly enter one by one. The remainder of the fugue further develops the material using all of the voices. (From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia)

PART TWO

A THEME IN MANY VOICES

CODETTA (present time)

Alan's chartered jet landed in San Diego in the late afternoon. He was exhausted, emotionally and physically, even though he'd slept the whole way from Sydney to San Diego, not even waking for a refueling stop in Hawaii. Sleep was more acceptable than anything else. If he was awake, he was going to have to deal with the fact that he was alone. For the first time in his life. No brothers and no father running interference..

But worst of all, no TinTin. His wife. At twenty-three, Alan Tracy was a widower. Alan swallowed hard at that thought, and lost himself in clearing customs.

Completely unaware of anything and wrapped in his own grief, Alan headed for the Tracy hanger located at the airport. There, he uncovered the sports car he kept here. Adding to the trunk the duffel bag of clothes he kept at the hanger, he was soon underway, never looking back, and never intending to return. He followed I-8 out of San Diego and out onto the desolate stretches, where he pushed the high performance car right to the edge of control and lost himself in driving.

Over the next couple of days, Alan followed a pattern. He drove until he was utterly exhausted. Then he checked into the first motel he could find, and slept as long as he could. Then he would be up – sometimes at three in the morning, sometimes as late as one in the afternoon, and would repeat the pattern.

It wasn't until he had gone through Arizona, merging on Interstate 10, and through New Mexico, ending up on the 70 to Amarillo, that Alan realized he was heading to Kansas. He decided that he really didn't have anywhere else to be, so that was fine. From Amarillo, he followed I-60 to I-281, turning north, up into Kansas, concentrating on the mechanics of driving, and trying not to think.

TB TB TB TB TB

Alan drove slowly past the farm his grandparents had once owned. The house was still well kept, and the farm was still a working farm. Even during the bleak month of February, work was still going on. Alan could see a man out by the back shed, working on a tractor. Behind him, the old weathered barn was a massive building, showing the scars of years, but still standing strong.

In front, the farm house where Alan's father had grown up stood neat and firm, rooted deeply by its cement foundation, barely visible behind the well rooted shrubbery in front. The house looked well cared for, and strong enough to weather even the strongest storm.

Alan pulled over and looked at the farm for a few moments. He had vague memories of driving by the place when he was small. But his grandfather had died before he was born, and his grandmother had moved in with them after his birth. So he'd never really seen the farm before.

Alan pulled back onto the highway, and picked up speed, heading back towards the Interstate from the rural route. As he headed northeast, he was thoughtful. It was beginning to occur to him about how little he knew about his own family. His three older brothers had all talked about playing on the Kansas farm. They'd lived in Kansas until just before Gordon was born, then they'd relocated to upstate New York.

As he drove through the countryside, just beginning to show signs of Spring and new growth, he also realized how little he knew about his mother's family as well. Honestly, he knew nothing at all except that her parents had also died soon after he was born. All he knew was the 'hero' side of the family – Jefferson Tracy. Well, maybe it was time to change that. To find out about the past generations. Maybe that would help ease the gulf in his soul right now.

The thought of his loss, and the very real hole in his life that it represented brought a fresh wave of pain. TinTin would not have appreciated his aimlessness. It was time to make some plans.

COUNTERSUBJECT, SECOND VOICE IN MINOR

Jeff Tracy sat at his desk fingering the envelope. A package had arrived that morning from the New York headquarters. In it was an overnight express package address to Jeff and marked personal. It was sent from Kansas to the New York office, to be forwarded to Tracy Island. After seeing the sender's name his assistant had forwarded it immediately. It was from Alan. There had been a sealed enveloped inside for Josie, one for Kyrano, and a slightly larger, bulkier package for Jeff.

Turning to the window, Jeff looked out on the peaceful island paradise. He could see Gordon swimming endless laps in the large pool. Gordon's thinking time. Scott and Virgil were playing tennis against John and Brains. Brains was a surprisingly good tennis player, for all his lab work. Not in the other boys league certainly, but he could hold his own. All four were obviously trying not to have to think about past events. It was proving difficult.

Jeff had had Thunderbird Five up on auto so John could come down in order to attend TinTin's funeral. Alan had not told them when or where the services were to be held – Kyrano had. Jeff was certain that Alan didn't want them there, but was also just as certain that his youngest son wouldn't make a scene as long as they respected his space. Which Jeff intended to do. There would be no scenes.

Jeff turned back to his desk and studied his son's familiar handwriting on the front of the envelope. How had it come to this? Had he really been all that insensitive – all that domineering? Jeff looked back over the years and was appalled at his behavior. How could he have never seen, never guessed what his youngest son was feeling? Could he really have been that unfeeling?

He'd talked to his mother about it when he'd picked her up. She'd cut her visit short and came home, as shocked as the rest of the island residents at what had happened. She'd pointed out that Alan was right, and he did have a point. She'd suspected his feelings for many years, and although the youngest Tracy had confided to Josie most things, he'd never touched on the one thing that apparently bothered him most. Yet, as always, fault usually lay equally among all the participants.

Jeff sighed as he remembered Alan as a little boy, seemingly so well adjusted. Of course he was well adjusted, after all, Jeff might not have been around a lot being busy with a growing company, but Alan had four older brothers, and a grandmother who doted on him. But he was heartsick as he remembered the small blond child following him around, obviously idolizing his father. Asking what they were going to do for his birthday. Such an innocent question, and Jeff having no inkling of the desperation behind it. He'd just taken it at face value, explaining to Alan that there were things they had to do on his birthday, and that they would celebrate later.

But later Jeff would be unable to function, unable to celebrate the day of Alan's birth with him, because he was so caught up in the huge gulf of his loss. For several years he'd tried to make up for it with extravagant gifts, far more than the other boys received, and knew his mother produced a family party. But Jeff couldn't cope. Just couldn't join in, too focused on his loss. He'd had no idea how little the gifts had meant. That over the years it would be the lack of his presence that Alan would remember most.

Alan's words were burned into Jeff's mind. "I mattered less than someone who was dead." He didn't know if that, or the fact that Alan didn't share his grief about Lucy's death bothered him more. Jeff felt shamed that in his preoccupation with his loss, he had kept Alan from ever knowing who Lucy was. It saddened him to no end to realize what a complete stranger she was to their youngest son. She would never have forgiven him for that.

Jeff should have seen it. That's what bothered him the most. In hindsight, it was so clear. He should have seen it in a hundred small things, as his youngest son grew older. Alan's hold on his temper decreased with age, as his tendency to pout increased. At the time, Jeff had just put it down to Alan's personality. He was just more volatile than his brothers; he was the youngest, therefore somewhat indulged. And, indeed, there was definite truth to both of those perceptions. But what was probably just as true was that his volatility was as much Alan's reaction to his life and the expectations placed on him as much as it was his natural temperament.

Jeff could remember Alan's birthdays well during his late elementary school years. Alan would throw tantrums on a spectacular scale, refusing to go to the cemetery, and hiding until the family had left. He would anger Jeff with his behavior to the point that Alan would end up being punished in one form or another. More often than not, Alan ended grounded on his own birthday. How could he have missed the root problem?

That was when Alan's habitual defiance really started, Jeff mused. Alan was never truly awful, just a handful. High spirited, his teachers had said. Just needs a firm hand. Now, after hearing what Alan had said, Jeff wondered again just how he'd missed the real issue. It was so clear! But he'd just dealt with the symptoms, figuring 'boys will be boys'. He never saw the real problem because he just wasn't home enough because he was working, or busy, or occupied elsewhere.

And to be brutally honest, he was tired. He'd been though all of it four times before. So he treated Alan just like his brothers, not seeing him as an individual, forgetting that with Scott, it had all been so new that he'd allowed his child to choose his own directions, and delighted in his ability to become his own person. Jeff was just astounded at his own conceit. It was amazing that Alan had grown up so stable at all, really, as he looked back on it.

By junior high, Alan was no longer following him around, or trying to get his attention. He frustrated Jeff because he wouldn't work up to his full potential (which was considerable) or focus, as his brothers did. There was so much there! It infuriated Jeff to no end – it was like Alan just didn't care. Jeff kept holding up his brothers as examples. Now, of course, looking at that time from a new perspective, Jeff could see that all he had been doing was compounding the real problem.

Alan had just given up. He had obviously seen no reason to try anymore. He would work hard enough to keep his parent and older brothers off of his back, but that was about it. And it broke Jeff's heart. What he wouldn't give to be able to start over.

Alan's statement about Jeff never letting him speak his mind, and always interrupting him before he made his point cut to the quick. It was so true, as he looked at it. Alan was right. He'd had to fight to be heard, and even when they all listened, nobody took him seriously – after all, there were far more experienced opinions to be considered. No wonder Alan always had such an edge to him, such a chip on his shoulder that his other sons didn't have. And no wonder Alan had never talked to him or anybody else about any of this. Nobody listened. Not that they intentionally ignored him. They were just, well, busy.

Jeff thought about Alan's relationship with Gordon. He wondered if Alan had ever spoken to him about his feelings, then decided that no, he probably hadn't. He wouldn't have needed to. Gordon would be happy with however Alan was, and not feel any need to change him.

But there was one person who truly listened to him, and wanted to help him be who he was – TinTin. And now she was gone, and Alan was alone because he refused to stay and be dismissed anymore. Alan was right, and Jeff knew he had a great deal to answer for.

With a heavy sigh, he broke the seal on the envelope in his hands. Out fell Alan's wrist-comm. And with it, a letter. A business-like letter detailing Alan's wishes regarding his belongings. An address to a storage facility in San Diego. Instructions on what to discard. And also included, a separate formal letter of resignation from International Rescue. Nothing else. No personal note, nothing.

Jeff buried his face in his hands and cried as he hadn't since Lucy had died.

VARIATION ON A NEW THEME – UNKNOWN VOICE

The groundskeeper at Covenant Lawns Memorial Park in New York stopped raking the dead leaves, and rested his crossed arms on his rake as the limousine pulled up. He'd watched this scene hundreds of times – people rich and poor, young and old, burying their dead. They all were alike at times like this. Death was the great equalizer.

He'd hear through the grape-vine that this was a private service for a young wife and her unborn child. The husband was only twenty-two. Sad really.

He watched as the Mercedes limousine drew to a halt on the road at the base of a small rise of land. The flower draped coffin was already in place under the pavilion, waiting to be lowered. The flowers stirred slightly in the cold, light wind, a spot of color against the winter bleak February landscape. The officiating pastor moved to greet the young blond man in the richly tailored black suit. An older, oriental gentleman stood next to the young man, the lines on his face etched far deeper with grief than with age.

The two followed the pastor up to the pavilion, and turned to face him as he began the service, the ends of his stole twisting slightly in the moving air. After a moment, the pastor stopped and gestured to another approaching limousine. The young man turned and looked at it blankly for a moment. The groundskeeper was interested. He was too far away to hear words, but the pantomime was clear.

The Asian man put a hand on the young man's shoulder and said something to him. The young man nodded and turned his back on the approaching car and faced the pastor once more. The older oriental man touched his shoulder once again, as if in comfort, and then said something to the pastor, who nodded. The young widower said nothing after that; he just stood with his head bowed.

The groundskeeper then turned his interested attention to the other approaching car. Another black Mercedes limousine, he noted, and it pulled up behind the first. These people had money, that was for certain. He was even more certain as he watched the occupants disembark. Five young men, all of different coloring, ranging from blond to dark. Oddly enough, one was wearing glasses with vivid blue frames, which looked incongruous amongst the rich black mourning suits each wore. The fit of the suits, and the neat cut again spoke of money. The young men all appeared trim and fit, handsome specimens, the gardener thought. For a moment, he was sorry his daughter hadn't come with him to help today. She would have certainly appreciated such fine young gentlemen.

An older, silver haired version of the young men then exited the car. He was as fit as the others. That also spoke to the groundskeeper of wealth. Those who didn't have to worry about bills could spend time on looks and fitness. But honestly, it didn't really matter in the end. Death was death, and it took you when it was your time, regardless.

The last person to emerge from the car was an elderly woman. She was courteously helped by two of the young men, hovering attentively over her. She smiled at them, and patted their hands in affection, then stood imperiously, looking around her. Her black suit and veiled hat gave her the appearance of a queen with her retainers. She put a hand on the silver haired man's arm, and spoke to him a moment. He spoke back, the lines of his body showing a reluctance that puzzled the groundskeeper. They had a brief conversation, then the man apparently capitulated, and the elderly woman left the group and made her way up the slight hill to the smaller group under the canopy.

The gardener's attention was then caught by a pink (pink!) Rolls Royce approaching the line of cars. The car pulled up, and a chauffer emerged and handed out a striking blond woman in a black couture suit, and veiled hat. The group still standing at the limousine turned to greet the newcomers. The woman kissed the silver haired man on the cheek; then they all ranged themselves beside the pink car in an informal row at the base of the hill, attentive, yet removed from the service.

The widower had not turned around to see the newcomers, and started visibly when the elderly woman placed a hand on his arm. He turned to her, listened as she spoke briefly, then hugged her, desperation apparent in every line of his body. She held him for a long moment. As they separated, she indicated to the group at the base of the hill. He looked impassively at them for a moment, then turned back to the service, taking hold of the woman's hand in a motion that looked as though he were taking hold of a lifeline.

And that was the manner in which the graveside service was performed. The small group of three under the pavilion with the pastor and the casket at the top of the hill, and the rest at the bottom of the rise, apart, almost an honor guard.

Then it was over. The young man stared at the ground as the pastor placed a hand on his shoulder. They spoke a few words. The other man and the woman joined in. The young man's shoulders were tense as he took a single rose off the flower draped coffin. The others drew close to him, touching him briefly. The gestures were loving towards the young man, although they were obviously as grief stricken as he was. Then the young man was leaving alone, heading towards the first limousine in line without so much as a glance at the group beside the Rolls Royce. Only when he was in the car, and the limousine was driving away did the group below move up to pay their respects.

Interesting, the gardener mused. Most interesting. Truly a story there. But one he would never know. One of many dramas played out in this place.

Yet this scene stayed with him through the years, and he always took special care of the grave of the young woman, and the grave next to it as well, since she held the same surname. He always wondered about that scene, and the life of the young woman taken so early. Even her names were interesting: TinTin Kyrano Tracy. He often wondered about her, but he knew he'd never know. He was only a witness to the drama of one small piece of her family's life. TinTin Tracy, and the woman buried next to her, Lucille Evans Tracy.

FIRST VOICE – TRANSITIONAL MOVEMENT

The days following the funeral passed in a blur for Alan. And he was grateful – it kept him from having to think about his loss. He felt as though part of him was missing. He actually found himself feeling sorry for his father, if this was the kind of pain that he had lived with all of these years.

But then Alan would remember growing up with that kind of life given to the pain, and would find himself growing angry yet again. He refused to allow himself to become an emotional cripple about his late wife, and steeled his resolve. And he could feel TinTin's approval.

So instead, he made plans. He contacted his old mechanic, and good friend, Kenny Malone, who was ecstatic to have him back as a driver. In no time he was set up with Kenny's team under a national sponsor. Press releases were sent out advertising his return, and Alan once again joined the fray.

He made arrangements to leave the majority of his belongings in the storage facility in San Diego, where he had has father ship them from Tracy Island. He chose only selected items to take with him at the moment. He'd have the rest shipped when he was settled.

Alan timed his arrival at the track for immediately following his birthday in March. The four weeks gave him a chance to make his plans and wait until he was feeling mentally stable.

However, the anger at his family, specifically at his father still burned hot, especially on the morning of his twenty-third birthday. He got up early, and was at the cemetery by 7am. He had no desire to run into his family. He knew, with twenty-three years of experience, that they wouldn't be there until late morning.

Alan stood, as he had every birthday of his life, looking at his mother's grave. Only this time there were two. His mother on one side, and TinTin, his wife on the other. There was a certain symmetry to his actions, as Alan was here this year by choice – the first time in his life. This time there was no parental edict involved. He was here as much to make a statement to himself; to provide closure to the old, mark a turning point, and to begin his life anew. He was here for himself for a change, rather than out of respect for his father because he himself had felt nothing.

He laid a sheaf of red roses on TinTin's grave, and as he knelt, ran a hand over the engraving on the stone, his vision blurring. Red roses for love. "My beautiful wife," he murmured, then stood, looking at the grave. "I promise you TinTin, I'll carry out everything we talked about. I promise I won't be the emotional cripple my father was about Mom's death. I'll make the most of myself, because you were so clear that that was what you wanted." He paused for a moment, then whispered brokenly, "I miss you so much, baby. And . . . take care of our child."

He then turned to the grave of the woman he had never known, the woman who had given him life in error, then died at the moment of his birth. He laid a single yellow rose on the grave. Yellow for remembrance. His own pledge to himself. He'd learn about her so that he could remember her, mark a life given for his own.

Alan stepped back and looked at the graves for a moment more, cementing his resolve. Then, he turned and walked back to his already packed car, and a new beginning to his life.

TB TB TB TB TB

Later that day, the remaining Tracy's stood silently at the same grave sites, looking at the tangible signs of Alan's presence. "Be with him, Lucy," Jeff breathed. "Be with our son, now, while I can't."

STRETTO – MULTIPLE VOICES

Life continued on as usual on Tracy Island that spring and on into early summer. Rescue calls came in, John alternated months on Thunderbird Five with Virgil and Gordon. Scott snitched apple pie from Grandma, lightening the mood occasionally, and Gordon played pranks. Life was normal. But there was a large gap. Alan and TinTin were missed desperately, but quietly. Nobody needed to point out the obvious.

Jeff talked to Penny often, confiding his worries and fears for his youngest son, and his soul-deep regret about what had happened. Grandma and Kyrano were also sounding boards for the Tracy patriarch, as well as for his sons. The losses left no one untouched.

Watching car racing now was the favored pastime for most of the Tracy clan. And any race that Alan was participating in was sure to be on in the lounge, with all of the family present. And more often than not, somebody would quietly slide a disk into the recorder, in order to record not only the race, but more importantly, the after race interview with the winner, who was more often than not, Alan.

Alan was big news in the racing world. The talent that had been so promising prior to his early retirement from the circuit flourished, then took off. Alan was the toast of the racing circuit. He was constantly in magazines, on covers and in advertisements. The majority of these always found their way quietly into the Tracy family lounge, so that everybody could see the news.

This was the state of affairs one late evening, as Grandma found Gordon leaning on the railing watching the sunset. Josie came out to join him, enjoying the breeze. The clean up from the evening meal was taken care of, and the rest of the family was out and about on the island.

"My, doesn't that feel good," she commented in relief. "Today was hotter than normal."

Gordon smiled absently, and watched the horizon, clearly deep in thought.

"This must be something serious, young man. I expected you to be down with Scott and Virgil, looking at the new program Brains wants to put on Thunderbird Four. Are you going to let them add something to your submarine without even checking it over? That isn't like you," she said, cocking her head and looking at him.

Gordon laughed slightly. "They haven't put it in yet, and yes, I'll be down there doing it myself! Like I'd let Scott and Virgil anywhere near my lovely lady . . ."

Josie smiled. That was more like it. She remembered the race they'd watched that afternoon. Alan had won handily, but there had been a few close calls. Gordon had had a shuttered expression on his face. "Are you worried about Alan?" She asked softly.

Gordon took a deep breath, then exhaled heavily, eyes fixed on the horizon. "Worried? No, not really. Alan's clearly doing well. Just, oh, disappointed, I suppose. I always thought we were more than brothers, we were friends as well. And what he said in the hospital that day . . . well, it really hurt. I've been thinking about it a lot. He lumped me in with his feelings about Dad and the other guys. I always thought we were different."

"And you're angry with him," Josie summed up softly.

Gordon looked at her startled, then looked away, embarrassment flushing his face scarlet.

Josie put a hand on his shoulder. "It's okay, sweetie. You have a right to be angry. And so does Alan."

Gordon ran a hand through his hair in distraction. "I know he does. He really has every right to be furious. I agree with everything he said. Dad and the guys are a really hard act to follow. If I didn't have my swimming, I know I'd have probably felt the same way. Or, maybe not." He gave a sudden grin. "I've always kind of moved to my own drummer."

"I'll say," Josie laughed. "You'd be fine in whatever pond you were dropped into."

Gordon continued, sobering. "I guess I just didn't expect to be included. He knows I like him. Man, he's my best friend, not just my brother. To be told that I don't act like I even 'like' my brother just frosts me. Then, to still not have heard from Alan at all . . ." Gordon broke off abruptly, as though he'd said to much, and turned his attention back to the darkening sky.

"That's the root of it, isn't it?" Josie responded gently. "You expected to hear from him by now, hadn't you?"

Gordon gave a grudging nod, then added almost inaudibly, "He didn't even look at me at the funeral."

It was Josie's turn to sigh. "Gordon, please believe me when I tell you that when Alan's ready, you will most likely be the first person he contacts."

Gordon cocked his head. She had his full attention. Josie was very wise when it came to her family, and they all knew it.

"Of course Alan lumped you in with everybody else. He had to make a clean break, and you've also been held up to him as a comparison. He never told you about the coaches in school who tried to make him your successor on the swim team?"

Gordon was dumbfounded. "No! Oh, he joked sometimes that they thought maybe he was a fish too, but then found out differently. But nothing more serious than that."

"It was much more serious than that Gordon. In his senior year in high school, the coaches made him so miserable that Jeff had to call the school and get them to back off. Alan wanted to concentrate on track, and that's what he did. But it took some tough Tracy talk to get them to allow that. They wanted another Gordon Tracy."

"Alan was fabulous in track," Gordon said, staring. "He was one of their top athletes his senior year."

"Yes, he was. He was very good, but not at the level you were at in your sport, and he was always being asked about his brother, the Olympic swimmer."

A flabbergasted Gordon just stared at Josie. She smiled back. "So you see, in some ways you are a part of the problem." She held up a hand, stopping him from speaking. "But you will also probably be the solution. Alan does not want to be you, and doesn't feel that pressure to become you, because you've always enjoyed him for who he is, and not tried to make him be 'like' somebody else. But he does desperately want to be like Scott and his father, but he is not them either. And he doesn't see that."

"And nor do they," Gordon murmured quietly, acknowledging the truth of that statement and beginning to see what she was driving at.

"Exactly. A lifetime of comparisons to 'be successful like Scott', or 'study like John', or 'be creative like Virgil' have taken their toll. I'm thinking that everybody is doing a lot of soul searching right now, and not just Alan. But when it comes time, Alan will contact you. And you just need to accept him and what he is doing, and don't try to talk him into anything. Be the friend you've always been. I have no doubt, you'll hear from him before any of the rest of us."

Gordon looked at her for a moment, then grinned and hugged her. "Thanks Grandma. I feel better," he said into her hair.

"Good," she laughed, patting his back. "Now why don't you come with me and we'll have some of that fresh apple pie before Scott gets it all."

Gordon laughed, and followed her into the lounge, feeling better about his younger brother and himself.

TB TB TB TB TB

Unbeknownst to Gordon, two other brothers became involved in a similar conversation later that night regarding the same subject.

Virgil had watched his older brother brood about the situation with Alan for some time. He decided that it was finally time to shake him loose. Scott had brooded long enough, in Virgil's opinion. He found his moody brother seated on the catwalk that circled Thunderbird Three's silo. He was pleased to note that the bottle of aged scotch was only down a couple of fingers. Good. Not drunk then, just maybe slightly buzzed.

"Aren't you a little off your beaten path? Thunderbird One's scaffolding is more your usual haunt. Took me awhile to find you."

Scott snorted appreciation, leaning back against the wall, this long legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. He gazed at the red machine, gleaming in the darkness. He took a sip for his glass leisurely, then asked, "Am I really that predictable?"

"In a word – yes," Virgil grinned, taking the sting out of his answer. "Give me some of that. I brought my own glass."

"Man, I am predictable," Scott groused as he handed the bottle over. "I'm barely in my thirties and you know every move I'll make."

They subsided for a moment or two while Virgil got settled and took a sip from his now full glass, savoring the rich liquid.

Scott finally broke the silence. "Yeah, I'm predictable all right. I always toe the line. Unlike some people I know." His gave broodingly followed the sleek lines of the dark machine in front of him.

Virgil had to laugh. "No, predictable is not a word I'd ever use to describe Alan."

Scott had to grin in response and agreed, his mood lightening somewhat for a moment. "Man, that kid used to make me nuts. He was always into something he shouldn't have been, and always had a reason for it – even if it was BS. He'd look me square in the eye and tell me to back off, and all of the time I was trying to keep whatever it was from Dad in order to save his hide. Little shit!"

"Used to do the same thing to Dad too," Virgil commented, grinning at the memories.

"Used to? Who are you kidding! He still does. Or did." The grin disappeared quickly. "I always admired that in him, you know? The kid's brave. He always has been. Got to hand it to him. He couldn't have been more than twelve, and he'd go toe to toe with Dad." Scott shook his head in amazement. "There were Air Force officers who wouldn't risk that."

"I know. Stupid, but brave. He never won by doing that, usually just made things worse. But he never quit, I'll have to give him that."

"Yep, tenacious little brat." Scott paused for a moment. "I never told him that, you know? How much I admired his guts and his tenacity."

"Stubbornness," Virgil corrected.

Scott shrugged. "Whatever. But it can be a really good trait. I never told him how proud I was of his guts and determination. Instead I just kept telling him to toe the line, obey the rules."

"Good thing, too," Virgil commented. "I seriously doubt Alan would have lived long enough to grow up if you hadn't beaten that into that into his head. Standing up to Dad occasionally was fine. Doing it more often than that was more like suicide."

Scott sighed his agreement. "And Al was suicidal all right."

"More often than not," Virgil agreed. "Although you have to admit it was entertaining to see Father go bright red and Alan just looking at him, saying either 'No' or 'Why?'. Got us off the hook for a lot, as I remember, with Father so furious and focused on Al."

Scott snorted, nearly spraying his drink. "I'll say. And you're right – it was always the flat 'No' or the 'Why'. I spent more time just trying to keep that kid alive! The last thing I was going to tell him was that I was impressed."

"I'll say. But, you know, Dad was too. Even when he wanted to throttle him."

"I know." Scott continued softly into the silence. "I wonder if he ever told Alan that."

"I doubt it," Virgil responded. "You know how Dad is about maintaining discipline. But I know I saw Dad blink a time or two at the 'Why' over the years. Made him think, that's for sure."

Oh yeah. I have to hand it to Dad. If he thought Alan was being reasonable he gave him an answer, then cracked down on him. Other times he stuck with the normal parental 'because'."

Virgil nodded sagely. "Caught Dad out a couple of times, too. But it was always the defiance that got Alan into trouble. Of course that's the same trait that has saved all of our butts a time or two during rescues."

"Yep. Defying orders because he's asked himself 'why' and not gotten a good answer and saved our necks because of it. You know," Scott commented thoughtfully, "that could be called 'initiative' in an adult, and considered a good thing, but not as a kid. I guess I've been realizing that I'm still stuck in the pattern of when he was a child – trying to get him to obey the rules, rather than giving him credit for the common sense to know when to obey, and when it's better not too. Alan's grown up, and I haven't let him," Scott finished sadly.

"I know the feeling," Virgil said quietly.

There was a moment or two of silence, then Virgil commented, "Can you believe that he told Dad how he felt about Mom?"

Scott shuddered and drained down the last swallow in his glass. "That took a braver man than I'll ever be," he stated flatly.

"Amen to that."

Silence descended again for awhile, as the brothers sat quietly in the dark silo.

"You know this is eating Dad alive," Scott finally ventured.

Virgil just nodded. No need to state the obvious. They all knew how deeply Jeff cared for all of his sons.

They fell silent again, each pouring another drink, and nursing it quietly.

"I'm worried about Gordon," Scott finally said. "He was really hurt by what Alan said."

"Has he talked to you?" Virgil asked in surprise. Gordon didn't often go to Scott. He talked to Alan. He always said Scott made him crazy with the mother hen routine. He had one father, he didn't need two.

"No," Scott answered bitterly. "I'm the perfect heir. Why would he?"

Virgil looked at his brother in alarm. "Scott . . ."

Scott waved his concern away. "No, it's okay. That just hit pretty close to home. Alan made it pretty clear where he stood, and I can guess about Gordon. But what about you and John?" Scott looked at him seriously.

"Do you mean, do I feel in your shadow? Yes – you're taller than I am."

Scott snickered appreciatively at the sally, then sobered. "Seriously."

"Me? No. But you definitely have a special place with Dad. My talents are very different – thankfully." He shrugged. "John's too. He's always filled in the gaps between the two of us." He paused. "As for the younger ones? Well, Gordon – he's ALWAYS gone his own way. But I have to say, hearing Dad lecture those two over and over when they were kids on how they should strive to live up to your example made me cringe more than once." He continued thoughtfully. "I think maybe Gordon did feel overshadowed once, and that's why all the pranks started when he was a kid."

Scott nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, maybe. But between WASP and swimming, Gordon doesn't have to compare himself to any of us any more."

"Now," Virgil pointed out. "And knowing Gordon, he's kept the pranks up because he enjoys them."

"But Al," Scott began pensively, "Never really had that outlet. Not even racing gave him any clout. It was just cars – not airplanes or rockets. And all I did was ride his case about it through college, trying to get him through his engineering courses and away from the cars. He was so dammed good at engineering too, but he just didn't, or wouldn't, apply himself. I kept telling him you'd help him if he asked, and nagging. 'Pay more attention in school, you're here to learn, not wreck cars.' I never did tell him how good I thought he was at racing – I was just afraid that if I gave him any encouragement at all, it would take his attention away from what was important and bring Dad down on him again. Dad came down on him enough. Man, how he must have resented me," Scott whispered, the hurt apparent in his voice at the thought of his adored baby brother. "And there I was, always riding his case."

Virgil mused awhile, chewing that thought around. "I don't know if 'resented' is the right word. He always admired you Scott. Geez, anybody could see that. Hell, he idolized you! I think the issue wasn't that everybody was telling him how wonderful you were – he agreed with that. I think it was more the 'you should try to be just like Scott' or 'why couldn't you do it like your oldest brother'. I think he wanted too, but he just couldn't figure out how to do it. It's just not in his make up. So he felt like a failure." Virgil took another sip, then realized that Scott was staring at him. He added self-consciously, "How was that for pop-psychology?"

"No, I think you may have nailed it," Scott said slowly. "It would sure explain the chip on his shoulder."

They sat in silence awhile longer, slowly sipping their drinks and thinking.

"You know, it really is amazing how things may not be as you've perceived them all of your life," Virgil said reflectively. "All of a sudden, something happens and there is a completely different side to things."

"Yep, I know what you mean."

There wasn't much else to say after that. The brothers just tapped their glasses together and sat in companionable silence, staring at the giant red rocket which was the tangible symbol for their much missed youngest brother.

SECOND CODETTA – FIRST VOICE

"Alan. Go. Home." Kenny spoke distinctly and clearly as he saw the young man heading purposefully for the race car. They had just unloaded after returning to their home base.

"I just wanna see . . ."

"ALAN!" Alan turned reluctantly at Kenny's stern voice. "Go home. The car is fine. We'll look it over tomorrow."

"Yeah," Pat Young, Kenny's assistant agreed tiredly. "If you stay, so do I."

Alan laughed sheepishly. "Okay, okay."

There was a moment of silence, and Alan realized that the two older men wouldn't move until he did, thus ensuring he actually left. Throwing up his hands in surrender, he preceded them out the door of the garage.

The same scenario played out as they got into their cars, waiting for Alan to drive off first. He gave up. Throwing a jaunty wave in their direction, he roared off towards the apartment he was calling home.

It was a nice apartment, in a good location, in a small exclusive building. Architecturally, it was lovely, but in Alan's unit, that was about it. Good bones waiting for the external furnishings he had yet to add – even after three months.

Alan unlocked the door and walked into the silent, unlived-in feeling apartment. Virgil would have loved it, he though to himself. It had all of the details that the engineer/artist raved about. Arched doorways, unstinting molding, and lots of built-ins. Alan knew it would be nice. Someday. When he finally got around to unpacking the boxes he'd had sent from the storage unit. Funny, he felt more at home at the garage.

He looked around with a sigh, as he dropped his leather duffel bags in the front hall, kicking the door shut behind him. The living room was just a stack of boxes. Instead of a couch in front of the fireplace and French doors to the balcony, it was boxes. He just hadn't gotten around to getting any furniture yet.

Alan knew the other rooms weren't much better. There WAS an actual bed in the master bedroom, but not anything else. The den was really the only room with any real furniture. His computer, TV and stereo, plus an easy chair were located there.

Looking around the barren apartment, with all its potential, but just cold right now. Memories of Grandma and Kyrano arguing in the kitchen while enticing smells came from it. His brother's voices, arguing, laughing and mocking. And TinTin . . . Alan blocked that memory ruthlessly. He just couldn't go there. Maybe it was time to get moved in.

Heaving a sigh, Alan moved slowly to the pile of boxes. He'd already opened the boxes containing his clothes, and the one with his wedding portrait. He wasn't sure he could stand much else. Even the portrait was tough. Sometimes he could look at it, other times he had to turn it over. Alan had a lot more understanding about his father's reaction to his mother's death now. He could even sympathize with how his father had reacted. It was taking all of his self-control not to follow Jeff's example – it would be so easy. But he'd lived with the consequences of his father's reaction all of his life and Alan refused to become a slave to that grief as his father had. As hard as it was, he intended to take a different path.

The first box he opened held books. This was okay. Most of his books had to do with cars anyway. Or space travel. Sitting on the floor, he thumbed through them idly, then stacked them on the floor next to the wall. He'd have to get a bookcase, he thought absently.

He hesitated as he came across a coffee table book on the history of space flight. It was a gorgeous book, with autographs from as many of the astronauts that were still living as John had been able to locate. There was even an inscription from his father next to his picture. It had been a gift from the middle brother on Alan's acceptance to NASA, with a comment that the astronauts in the family needed to stick together. Most of the autographs were congratulatory messages to Alan, specifically on his acceptance to the program.

He ran a hand over the cover. He'd loved this book and what it represented. His acceptance into his family as an adult, or so he had thought. He had stood, ready to take his place with them. But then the actual reality had sunk in. He felt so conflicted as he looked at what was now a tangible symbol of the problems with his family and his life. He'd felt such a part of something at that time. Part of the family tradition. And he'd done well. He was in the top ten percent of the training program. But John had been number one. So had his father. So, in essence, he'd failed - again. Missed the Tracy standard by a mile.

Thrusting the book from him onto the haphazard pile, he got to his feet and moved to another box. Maybe unpacking the books hadn't been such a great idea. He selected another box at random and opened it, and froze. This box was full of gaily wrapped presents. All colors and all shapes.

Alan reached in tentatively, taking hold of one of the presents as though it might bite him. He looked at the card with his name on it. Putting down the package and opening the card, he read it. 'Happy Birthday, Alan. Thought we'd forgotten you? Not a chance. Not sure when this will find you, but I'm thinking of you - Gordon.'

Stunned, he replaced the card and looked at another. There were gifts from his whole family. He recognized the various handwritings on the envelopes. Grandma, his father, all of his brothers and Kyrano and Brains as well. There were even a couple with no writing on the envelopes. Alan dropped the last as though it burned him. He couldn't deal with this right now. He couldn't even bring himself to open the cards. He needed to stay strong, and see this through. Not be reduced to the level of 'little brother' again. He quickly shut the box, and gave up on unpacking.

He headed into the den instead, and turned on his computer, happy to lose himself in his genealogy project.