DICLAIMER: The rights to Thunderbirds are held by Carlton, Universal, and Gerry Anderson. This story is for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended, nor should any be inferred.

Space Monitor
March 2018


Dear son,

I hope that everything has been going smoothly for you, though I'm sure that it has. You seem to have slid right into your position, and I have no doubt that you're wowing the crew over there with your talents! I suppose that I could quote your own words - you will work where you're needed, and I guess they want you at a desk doing data analysis.

Just a word to the wise, before I talk about other things. I've never mentioned this before, but if you want to keep your sanity, stay away from the singles bars. You either get a first class fusion burn, or you end up with a girlfriend. I'm not sure which is more damaging, but I can attest to having experienced both.

It's an odd thought, to think of any of my children becoming serious with a woman. You can laugh at me, John, but for two of them it's already out of the question. It'd be awfully hard for either Scott, or Virgil in the coming year, to see anyone without risking our security. I'm sure that you understand.

But now, to the reason that I'm writing to you in this manner! I have high hopes that the postal service won't check your mail, so I think this is the safest possible manner to communicate with you.

Two months and already we have ten rescues under our belts. That's something! I feel horrible that I wasn't able to write you immediately after our little clash with Sophia. I'm sure that you heard little tidbits about it over the news. John, the entire experience makes me cringe and laugh all at the same time. It was extremely unprofessional, but I think that we're slowly improving the quality of our service. Every task that we accomplish teaches us something new or points out flaws in our systems. When you get home for holidays, remind me to show you the Thunderizer. It's a state of the art laser system that James has designed, and I think you'd like it.

So far, the biggest problem that we've been encountering is communications. James is constantly updating the satellite systems, which is helping with rescue recognition, but we're still having the issue of responsibility. There's too much for us to do during the rescue, and contact with the ground forces is suffering as a result.

We've been tossing around several ideas that could help lessen our workload while flying, but none of them have really taken. Ideally, James would feed us information over the comm, but he's not up to that task. And - this didn't surprise me to hear - he also doesn't have a lot of experience in the communications field.

Also - it all seems to be related to Five - James is having problems with the remote access systems. The satellite has a data transfer limit due to the size of the transmitter/receiver arrays, and having to communicate as well as pass rescue data back and forth is taking a toll on the systems. He's warned me that we'll probably have to stage computer repairs in a few months time. Remote access just isn't what it's cracked up to be.

If you have any ideas, feel free to share them with your father. It's frustrating to not be able to communicate with the people that you're rescuing simply because you're too busy to do so. We'll work through it, though.

And I have to comment on how well your brother is doing! John, it's as though Scott were born for this position. He's very happy with his job, and he takes a great deal of pride in it. It's a joy to work with my family, especially when they're so content!

The rest of your brothers say hi. Gordon wants me to pass on that you'd better do something really incredible with your life, to make up for what he's going to do. I told him that he'd better be joking.

I know that you're not much for writing letters, but I do truly want to hear how your work is going. If you need someone to talk to, John, don't even wait for the mail. I'm just a phone-call away.

Your father,

Jeff

A tiny smile crept onto John's face as he folded the letter and gently replaced it into the envelope that it had come in. He knew that, for security purposes, he should probably burn it, but he couldn't bring himself to. He had read it over three times since Jeff had sent it, and every time it had made him smile.

"Don't worry, Dad, I won't be going to any bars." Bar hopping was, to John, just another way to act out of line and embarrass oneself, and there was nothing that he disliked more than intentionally making his emotions and his body vulnerable to others. He had been that way since his mother had died, and nothing would change that.

The other members of the NASA team had learned it that hard way – in fact, they hadn't pressed him at all since the night of the very first rescue when Lawrence Clayton had succeeded in sticking his foot very far into his mouth.

It was funny, how his father could speak of meeting his mother in that fashion without it causing John to feel the same emotions that he had when Lawrence had spoke of it. When Lawrence had accidentally broached the subject, it had been in a light-hearted manner – and John did not see anything light-hearted about the situation. There was nothing funny about forcing someone to flirt with the opposite sex in the vain attempt to . . .

Shaking his head, John pushed the thought from his mind. The last thing that he needed was to start feeling sorry for himself for not having a girlfriend. At the moment he had neither the desire nor the opportunity to have one, and no amount of pressure from his co-workers or kind words from his father was going to change that.

"'Your father'," John muttered, laughing on the inside at the older man's seriousness that surfaced even when talking to his children. Underneath that callous exterior, John knew just how much Jeff truly cared about his family. He had not intended to hurt his son with his words and had obviously meant for them to be taken lightly. Jeff had no expectations of his son, no real desire to see him follow in his father's footsteps. The fact that he had taken the time out to write a hand-written letter, in an age of computers and e-mail, showed his compassion plainly.

And it was that emotion, compassion, which had driven John to go to the technical store and pick up a few new textbooks.

From where he sat at his desk, he could see the books stacked lovingly up on the upper half of his filling cabinet. The thick, black-coloured spines were already tarnished from one too many fingerprints. The one book that actually lay on his desk was suffering from bent corners, folded over to bookmark pages of importance.

Reaching out a hand - which was difficult, given how he was sitting with his feet up on the desk - John pulled the book towards him. He took it in his hands, opened it to the last page that he had studied, and began to read. There was other work to be done, for sure, but there were also hours in the day when John simply sat about and read for the fun of it. He had the time to spare.

The title of the book, printed in neat letters on the cover, was Laser Communications and Computer Implementation. It was the second book that he had read on the topic since the beginning of March, and he had another stack of them waiting to be read on the shelf. There was an almost unlimited supply of reading material available on the topic, enough for a person to eventually find out almost everything that they would ever need to know about it.

John wasn't sure whether his single-mindedness was a good thing or not, given that he wasn't pursuing research for his job. But he wasn't ready to give up. International Rescue was going to succeed; he was going to make sure of that. He understood electronics, he had the expertise to read into and become proficient in a second field.

And he had the ability to solve the problem that was plaguing his father. Somehow, with all of the knowledge that he had amassed during school, he would fix it.

"Hear that, Mom?" He whispered, a tiny smile coming to his lips as he spoke. "Things are going to work out. I promise."

Two days before the end of April, John Tracy let his head fall against the back of his couch and let the book in his hands drop to the cushions. The technical manual landed spread eagle on the upholstery, opened to the chapter entitled The Mathematical Properties of Background Noise.

He was exhausted, and in more ways than one. Glancing around at his sparsely decorated apartment, John wondered, for the first time since he had arrived at the Cape, what he was doing there. He had never cared much for physical wealth, but the lack of anything at all in his apartment suggested a level of poverty that was hardly healthy.

Of course, he thought, he had been spending an exorbitant amount of money on books in the last month. But that he was buying the books at all really made him wonder.

Communications: it had nothing to do with his job at all. He was a research engineer! He plotted structural stress during the launch sequence. It was immensely important work. The lives of countless people rode on his shoulders all the way up to space and back.

Communications: memories flooded back to John, of the hours that he had spent as a child hunched over a CB radio, trying to wile away long periods of boredom. The fascination, the curiosity, and the dawning feeling of triumph when he finally heard another person's voice were greater than anything he had felt while working at NASA. He had even wanted to go into radio astronomy for a time. John Tracy, who had once been twelve years old with all of the hope and curiosity in the world, had wanted to talk to the stars.

Child's play.

Something had to be done, John knew, and soon, before he became so distracted from his work that it became visible in the quality of his efforts. International Rescue was becoming more than a hobby for him, more than an act of compassion to aid his father.

It was fast becoming an obsession, and John understood why. There was a feeling of fulfilment that came with helping his father; a feeling that, when he weighed the importance of space science versus the worth of a human life, was stronger than anything that he had ever felt. And it completely counteracted the sinking feeling that had been rising in his stomach since he had applied for the NASA job.

The job.

He felt that he owed his co-workers more than what he was giving them. He felt that he had an obligation to his job, to his society, and he was not doing it justice. He felt that he had to stay where he was. He had to keep doing what he was doing. He felt he had to shove the thoughts to the back of his mind, where they wouldn't bother him any longer.

He couldn't.

"Do what you are meant to do," he whispered airily, though the words were sucked up by the noise of his second-hand air conditioner. "Do what you are meant to do."

For the briefest of moments, the sound of his mother's voice trickled through his mind. He didn't know if her words were the product of memory or his own imagination, but it didn't matter.

"Johnny, you have to do what you want to do. No one's going to make you do anything."

The sentence echoed about in his head, and he even experimented with the words on the tip of his tongue. Memory or not, his mother was right. Sighing, John let his head roll on the back of the couch, the last of his strength flooding from him in a rush.

From where he lay, eyes pointed towards the opposing wall, he could just make out the top of the painting that Virgil had created for him a few years back. The lush colours of the nebula seemed bright in contrast to the stark white walls of the apartment. It was so vivid, he thought, so incredibly vivid that it was nearly tangible.

And then, as his eyes fell to the planet Earth that rested in the bottom of the painting, John understood what he needed to do.

Having checked over the letter several times, only to find himself still unsatisfied with its contents, John Tracy finally succumbed and let the envelope that he carried fall into the open mail slot. Logically it was the right thing to do – he had to carry out his actions quickly, without being noticed, and to speak to the woman face-to-face would only eliminate the cover that he currently had.

But it still hurt. Turning his back to the office, John walked briskly down the darkened corridor with the intent of already being gone by the time that Alicia Berkman arrived at her office in the morning. He couldn't dally, or he risked giving into the part of him that refused to leave without explaining everything to the woman.

It would be the first of many sacrifices, John thought, that he would need to make if he were to carry out his plan. But it was necessary. Whether he liked it or not, some things were more important than his own feelings.

He just hoped that somehow Alicia would find it in herself to understand.

Dear Ms. Berkman,

I cannot begin to thank you for the kindness that you and your associates have shown me since I arrived. Even if I've never shown it, I do understand why they did what they did, and I appreciate their attempts to bring me out of my office for more than lunch.

I know that I really should be sending this letter to your superiors, but I feel a personal obligation to inform you first. You took an amazing risk by suggesting that I be put in my position, and subsequently placing me in that position, and I hope that I have not let you down.

But I have let you down, now, if not then. There are too many things happening for me to explain them in this short letter, and too many things that I cannot explain at all, but I would like you to know one thing.

I am not leaving because of anything that any of you have done. I could not wish for greater and more caring co-workers, and I can only hope that other people in other professions are blessed to work with men and women of your calibre. Perhaps the next individual appointed to my position will be more willing to join in the fun and accept the welcoming hand that all of you held out to me.

I've enclosed with this letter the finished schematics that my superiors requested to be done for the June pre-launch. I know it's a bit early, but I'm sure that it will take a load off of all of your shoulders. I'm sure that you can find someone else that can more than fill the empty office space that I am leaving behind.

I've also included with this letter my official letter of resignation. I hope that is enough. I've tried to tie up any loose ends as best as I could, and I'll apologise now if I didn't fully complete that task. It is not my intent to cause any of you trouble, and I sincerely hope that management does not pursue this matter any further than it needs to be.

It's very likely that I will never see any of you again. Don't try and find me. You won't be able to. I can't explain why that is, but please don't be worried. What I'm doing is my own volition, and the choice to leave NASA is the hardest one that I've ever made in my life. I will understand if you are angry with me, and if you never can accept why I am doing this. But know this:

I've always followed my heart. That's what has kept me sane through all of these years. My heart is telling me that Cape Canaveral is not my home. I'm sure that I knew this when I first applied to the space program, but I was so determined to get the job that I couldn't see that. Another position has come open now and I cannot ignore it, or I will be making as big a mistake as I did before.

If you ever want to find me, just wait for a clear night and look up. The stars are there, and I will surely be up there with them in heart. I'm sorry. I wish that I could say more. You've been a dear friend to me these past few months. You deserve better than this.

John Tracy

Pulling the hand-written letter tightly to her chest, Alicia Berkman was unable to solidify a single thought or feeling in her mind. She didn't know what to make of the letter, though she understood one thing very clearly.

John Tracy was not coming to work the next day. It was as simple as that. The news shocked her, and she realised how much John had apparently kept hidden from everyone. She hadn't been expecting it. No one had been. Of anything they had assumed that he was comfortable with his job, for it had been the one thing that he had completely dedicated himself to.

You've been a dear friend to me these past few months.

She had never really thought of John in that sense. Surely, she had been there for him as a guide and had showed him around the building and had introduced him to the other workers. But it had never really occurred to her how much her actions had meant to the quiet and withdrawn young man that was brilliant beyond his years. She had never gone out of her way to make him feel at home. In fact, she had made an effort to give the young man his space.

It was obvious to her, as she thought about it, that only a very small group of them – perhaps only her - had actually treated John as a person. Though he had more than earned his position, many people still thought of him as the son of Jeff Tracy. He was not a young man, but an enigma figure, a shadow of his father. Even Lawrence, who was such a kind soul, had not been able to help making comparisons between John and Jeff, whom he had worked with for so many years.

Thoughts of the night in the cafeteria came to mind, when Lawrence had accidentally rubbed John the wrong way and caused him to withdraw from them even further. After that episode, John had barely spoken to them outside of work. It was as though he had not existed outside of his office.

What to think about the boy? Alicia thought sadly. People weren't puzzles to figure out or a set of schematics that could be plotted. She understood, though, that John was not typical of anyone his age. He had never taken up an offer to go to the bar with his co-workers. In fact, he had made all attempts to isolate himself and become self-sufficient from the group. Where then, in the scheme of things, did he fit in at NASA? Perhaps he was truly too independent, too much of a loner, to survive in such a social environment. She should have seen it from the beginning, should have noticed the warning signs and should have taken action.

You've a dear friend to me these past few months. Where did that fit in? Maybe her silent assurances had been enough. And if they had been, then what was she supposed to do now? What was she supposed to offer the young man who had never opened up his heart to anyone around him? Even in his letter he had been kind and forgiving to those men and women who had obviously not been able to understand him. What was she supposed to do to respond to that?

There were too many thoughts and emotions to settle on one thing.

She wanted to know more. She wanted to hunt him down, wanted to drag him into her office and make him explain his actions. She felt betrayed by him; how could he leave such an important and prestigious organization hanging? Even if he had had a better offer, he still had a duty to NASA. He had too many talents to waste them doing –

But she didn't know what he was doing. That, more than anything, Alicia decided, bothered her the most. He could be doing something incredibly stupid, or something incredibly important, and she would never know. He could be rotting in a gutter or solving the crisis of world hunger. She just didn't know.

Reaching out a hand for the phone, she thought at first of trying to get a hold of Jeff Tracy, so that she could ask him first-hand where his son was. Worry spread in her gut; worry that her co-workers had pushed John too far and that he had done something unthinkable out of pain or confusion . . . Maybe she should have stepped in and stopped it, even if it had meant infringing upon the young man's personal life. If he had . . . if somehow he had . . . she would never be able to forgive herself . . .

Her fingers stopped partway to the receiver. Though she wasn't quite sure why, she knew that Jeff wouldn't be able to offer any answers. What John was doing was his choice, and only he could explain it. He had meant what he had said in the letter, she was sure of it. No one else could offer answers, neither Jeff nor the rest of his family that were spread out at unknown locations across the country. All of the hours that she had observed John alone in his office, all of the times that he had politely declined co-workers' invitations, and all of the countless opportunities that he had wasted to get to know his peers better, confirmed it.

He worked alone.

John Tracy was a loner. But the last paragraph of his letter contradicted that plainly. He had revealed in his final statement that the simplest acts of kindness meant more to him than anything in the world. Something so little, such a small touch of humanity, was everything to him.

As her thoughts final came together, it was that final conclusion – which she had reached twice during her reflection on the letter - that stopped Alicia from phoning the police and calling in a request for a missing person search. John had shown time and time again that he would make the greatest sacrifices - such as staying up nights in a row to finish a project - for something that he believed in. He had also shown that, above anything else, he would tackle a project alone if it meant enough to him. In fact, he worked better alone, away from the barrage of human interaction. He didn't fight society's preconceptions of him; he stepped over them completely.

I've always followed my heart.

And he was doing that again. He was leaving a position that meant a great deal to him to pursue something that apparently meant just that much more. What seemed so strange to Alicia was obviously not so strange to John. It was not the people that kept him at work – it was the work itself. In the end, she supposed, it didn't really matter to him how he was treated, or what anyone else felt about his leaving. He didn't care about that sort of thing.

He wasn't lying dead somewhere, the victim of a harsh suicide brought about by personal stress, and he hadn't left because of her and her co-workers. He had left because something – something that she could not imagine in her mind – meant more to him than what he already had at NASA. Something weighed more in his mind than the infinite devotion that he had shown to his employers. Some private venture of the heart, perhaps, had called him, and he had answered.

She wasn't angry with him. How could she be? He hadn't done anything wrong, in terms of his own philosophy. And yet, he hadn't done anything right, when she looked at the situation through her own eyes.

He had simply vanished without a trace, as he always did, wasting no effort to try and explain his alien reasoning to others. He didn't expect them to understand, perhaps. And perhaps, perhaps, she thought, they never would be able to.

She wasn't mad at him. She wasn't happy.

She was numb.

Alicia let the letter fall from her hands. It floated, carried by air currents, until it fell onto the floor at her feet.

It was time to tell the others.

The sound of a plane engine startled Jeff Tracy out of his reverie, bringing him back to his study and the mound of paperwork that lay on his desk. It was unmistakable, the low hum of the turbo-jet, and he wondered who it was that was approaching the island without radioing in.

Getting up from the desk, Jeff walked slowly to the window. He gazed outwards into the harsh glare of the sun and was able to pick out the outline of a blue coloured prop gliding down towards the main runway.

"John . . ."

Tracy One, the main jet flown by Jeff, was in the hanger. Tracy Two, the jet that he had purchased for John so that his son could fly home, was doing just that. Flying home.

Three seconds passed before Jeff decided that he should probably be waiting on the landing strip instead of watching the entire procedure from his office window. It took him less time than that to fly down the stairs, launch past a startled Brains, and smack directly into Scott, who was trying to carry a set of beers on a platter up to his father's office.

"Hey!" Trying to maintain his own balance, Scott let the tray and the beers fall to the ground. The glasses shattered on the wood, spraying their contents about the oak floor.

The two men stared at each other for a long moment, until Scott shrugged and reached down to pick up the tray. "Something happen?"

"John's home."

The words had an immediate effect on Scott. His face became concerned, and he let the platter fall back to the floor with a clang. "Why?"

"I don't know," Jeff replied, resuming his walk to the outside door and the landing strip. "I'm going to find out."

John felt numb. The entire flight from Florida to the island had taken three days even with stops, and he was tired beyond belief. He hadn't even taken the time out to rent hotels, but had instead simply curled up in the plane and slept in the passenger compartment.

As he grabbed his bag from the stow and slowly made his way out of the plane and down the exit ladder, he wondered if he were even awake. It felt so much like a dream, so full of fog, that he was beginning to doubt his sanity. The sunlight outside of the plane was blinding, and rays of light assaulted his already overloaded senses.

The sight of Jeff and Scott at the foot of the ladder did wonders for his exhaustion. He simply collapsed onto his father's form, closed his eyes, and let the real dreams take over.

"John!"

"Tired." The word slipped out of his mouth, but he was already drifting into darkness.

"John."

"I-i-i-i fear that I've made a horrible mistake."

"Hmm?" Jeff looked up from his spot beside the couch, where he and Scott had laid John down. The young man was obviously exhausted, and he had not stirred since he had arrived home two hours earlier.

"A mistake," Brains clarified, and with a sigh he pushed his glasses up on his nose. "I c-c-c-couldn't deliver your product for you."

Completely confused, Jeff shook his head. "What are you talking about?"

Silently, Brains reached into a shoulder bag that he was carrying with him and withdrew a thin coiled notebook. He opened it to the first page and turned it so that Jeff could see the long and looping handwriting scrawled onto the paper.

It was the diagram of Thunderbird Five that caught Jeff's attention. The picture, haphazardly drawn as if an afterthought, was interspersed with mathematical formulas and hastily jotted notes. The writing was in John's hand.

"What was he doing?" Jeff asked out-loud, taking the book from his engineer so that he could study it more closely.

"C-c-c-confirming my initial fears." Brains leaned over and flipped to the very back of the book. "You should read this."

The words, written largely so that they would be easily visible, jumped off of the page.

Hey Dad,

If you're reading this, I'll assume that I either fell asleep at the helm and you're recovering my body, or I fell asleep at home and haven't had time to speak to you. I hope it's the latter.

You need to pass this book on to Brains. It has some stuff in it that he might find useful, and he'll need to get started on it right away. I think I've found a way to fix your communications problem, but it's going to require some work on my part.

Hope I can live up to the standards that you and Scott have set.

Love,

John

"He fixed the problem?"

"H-h-h-he's counteracted my stupidity."

"Explain."

Brains looked around, found a chair nearby, and dragged it over beside the couch. Sitting down, he leaned carefully against the back and faced Jeff with a concerned look.

"T-t-t-there was something intrinsically wrong with my design for Thunderbird Five. The station is d-d-d-designed to carry out two main functions. First," he held up a finger, "it is m-m-m-meant to sift through r-r-r-radio frequencies and subsequently find and l-l-l-locate distress calls. Second, it is m-m-m-meant to serve as a communications hub f-f-f-for the organization, as well as a w-w-w-weather monitor. All of this work is c-c-c-carried out by the main computers."

"That sounds about right."

"It's not r-r-r-r-right. The problem that I r-r-r-ran into when designing the s-s-s-satellite was one of size versus e-e-e-efficiency. I-I-I-in order to stay invisible, the station had to be b-b-b-below a c-c-c-certain size. The stealth coating p-p-p-p-protects it to a certain extent, and the scramblers do a-a-a-an adequate enough job of hiding its transmission position. The problem lies in the –r-r-r-radio arrays. They can only be so large or t-t-t-t-they reflect visible light that could be detected. T-t-t-this in turn physically limits the transmission power."

A sigh escaped Jeff's mouth; he knew exactly what Brains was talking about. "There's not enough bandwidth for the systems to handle communications, data transfer, and search algorithm input all at the same time."

"E-e-e-exactly. M-m-m-may I?" When Jeff nodded, Brains reached over and took the notebook back. He flipped through it, his eyes darting from page to page, until he found what he was looking for. "Now," he held the book once again so that Jeff could see it, "m-m-m-most of the bandwidth is used up in remote access. I'm controlling the s-s-s-s-station from the ground, and the constant transmission of command prompts drains the bandwidth. In addition to that, the station handles communications between the Thunderbirds and the island, a-a-a-as well constant input from the general Earth radio stream itself. F-f-f-f-finally, any additional disaster information is relied in a tight-band data-stream directly to the Thunderbirds, where the pilots are forced to sift through the information themselves. The, uh, arrays are being split in four d-d-d-d-different directions."

"And what did he find?"

"He has proposed a-a-a-a partial technical solution," Brains explained, pointing at a set of trigonometric equations and diagrams that meant very little to Jeff. "We can increase the efficiency of the arrays by u-u-u-u-using a different type of grid. I was actually working on this myself, and it's nearly r-r-r-r-ready for implementation." He stopped there and gave Jeff a grave look. "This w-w-w-w-won't quite solve the problem."

"I thought you said that he proposed a solution."

"He d-d-d-d-did." Brains' mouth tightened ever so slightly, and he looked over at the sleeping form on the couch. "The other way to fix the problem is to eliminate the unnecessary command prompt and file transfer."

"How?"

"B-b-b-b-by condensing the weather information, satellite reads, and other technical data to one radio channel, and by eliminating the n-n-n-need for remote access."

Jeff's brow furrowed in confusion. "James, if you're trying to make a point, then spit it out. You're losing me."

"You need someone to relay the information m-m-m-m-manually," Brains explained quietly. "You need a, uh, human brain to sift through the data, to determine what actually needs to be sent to the g-g-g-g-ground. We need someone up on the s-s-s-station, Mr. Tracy, to deal with possible errors in the system and computer control directly."

The words echoed in Jeff's mind several times before the implications of them actually became apparent. When they did, his eyes widened enormously. He knew what John wanted to do. "No."

His voice apologetic, Brains sighed and replied, "There is no other way."

"No." Shaking his head, Jeff looked over at John, who had begun to snore, and closed his eyes in distress. "No. I'm not sending him up there." The idea seemed ridiculous. "James, think about it! He couldn't even manage the flight up. And the station is not suitable for habitation-"

"It c-c-c-c-could be made to be. Easily. We'd have to install m-m-m-manual interfaces, of course, but the computers could be re-designed for human use. M-m-m-mister Tracy, it would free up the downward bandwidth on all but one channel. You could have someone constantly relaying you information via v-v-v-voice communication – and extra data only if necessary - and the station could c-c-c-constantly be receiving information during the rescue using that extra, uh, transmission power. That's been i-i-i-impossible up until this point. John could even communicate directly with t-t-t-those in trouble if he needed to."

"No." Banging his fist on his knee, Jeff felt the anger welling up within him. "No. Why do you seem to feel that I have to send my son to some god-forsaken station in the middle of nowhere? You're my head engineer. Think of another way. It's not happening."

"I can't." Brains' face echoed true pity. "Mister Tracy, I would feel the same if it were F-f-f-f-fermat in this position instead of John. But w-w-w-we're not asking John to do this. He wants to do it. And we n-n-n-need him to do it."

"James-"

"Let him go."

Both Brains and Jeff turned their heads to see Scott standing calmly at the doorway of the room. His face was unreadable, and Jeff couldn't begin to fathom the emotions that had to be passing through his oldest child.

"Scott-"

"Let him go, Dad." Scott's voice was strained. "You let me quit the Airforce, and we thought that I'd be there forever. You're letting Virgil join the team when he finishes school. Let John do this. He gave his reasoning in the letter. There is no other way in hell that we can do this without him."

"It's suicide," Jeff managed to spit out, "that's what it is. Professional suicide."

"No, it's not. Professional suicide is when you do something stupid for nothing. He's throwing his entire career away to help us out. Dad," he sighed, "I heard you, two years ago, when you were talking to John about joining NASA in the first place. He wanted to do something to help the world. What could be greater than this? Dad, he loves us, this family, and that's stronger than any other emotion in the world. If that's why he left, then NASA is still a dead-end for him. It'd be like me going back to the Airforce. He'd just have to lie to himself over and over again, trying to convince himself that he's somewhere he wants to be when in fact he'd rather be at home helping us. It just wouldn't work. His career there is finished."

The words slammed into Jeff's brain like a rocket, shaking loose any remaining foundation that was left there. He knew that Scott was right, knew that Brains was right, and knew what was going to happen if he said yes. But the thought of literally sending one of his sons to the edge of existence dug at his heart in a way that nothing had in a long time.

"Maybe someone else can . . ." Jeff whispered, only to find his voice fading away to nothingness. There was no way that he could sacrifice two people to the cold vacuum. John would have to go on his own. "Scott, if he were asking anything else of me I would let him join in a moment. But this – "

From the couch, a tired and raspy voice whispered, "Let me try."

"John!" All three of the men jumped in surprise then quickly made their way to kneel by the couch.

"Hey, John," Scott laughed softly, punching his brother playfully in the arm. "You know that it's dangerous to fly when you're asleep, right?"

John snorted, his face still pale, and tried to return the punch. John's hand fell short, but Scott chuckled all the same at the attempt. "Scott, I don't even think I was asleep. That's what scares me." His expression brightened somewhat, even amidst his continuous yawning. "I didn't get sick, though. That's progress."

"That is progress," Scott replied, turning to look at his father with a profound expression. "If he can do that, he can make a sub-orbital jaunt."

"I-i-i-i'll need help installing the new circuits anyway," Brains added, to which Jeff finally groaned and threw his hands up in the air.

"Fine!"

The tone of his voice, both harsh and resigned at the same time, caused John, Scott, and Brains to all fall silent. They traded cautious looks, trying to figure out what Jeff was really thinking. In the end, it was not them who broke the silence.

It was Jeff who spoke. "I've tried all of these years to keep this family together, and truth be told I feel that I've screwed up more than I've succeeded. I don't want to lose another one of you."

Pushing himself up, John steadied himself for a moment with his hand, then reached that same hand out to grasp his father's shoulder. "You won't be losing me. We'll be able to talk. And I can't stay up there forever. We'll have to do supply runs back and forth, and maybe I can come down for Christmas and stuff."

Jeff didn't need John's words to convince him of what he needed to do. He knew what he had to do. "You won't be missing Christmas, John." He pursed his lips, then reached his own hand and placed it on top of his son's. "I don't want you to go. But I can't stop you, and I know how much you'll be able to help us."

Pale blue eyes widened in surprise. "You mean that you'll let me?"

"I don't let you do anything, John," Jeff explained, his own voice suddenly tired-sounding. "You're too old for me to order around. This is your choice."

Closing his eyes in absolute bliss, John pulled his fists to his chest and clenched them tightly. "Yes!" His next movement, an attempt to jump and pump his hands in the air, only half-happened as his physically drained body made little effort to actually move. The effort sent him sprawling onto the floor, his head smacking into the hardwood with a bang.

A laugh escaped Scott's mouth, even though he was horrified to see John fall so hard. Brains also laughed at the comedy of the situation, and soon Jeff joined in. John, meanwhile, lay dazed on the floor, rubbing his aching head with his hand.

"Ow."

Jeff took his son gently by the arm and helped him to sit back up on the couch. "Just wait until you get home from space. You'll be doing that for a week."

"That felt like the centrifuge," the blond moaned quietly, laughing at himself for his stupidity. "I couldn't even move."

"A-a-a-about that," Brains put in happily, "I've been working on a device that could p-p-p-possibly counteract the free-fall effect in order to provide some f-f-f-f-form of artificial gravity-"

Deciding that it was time to actually let John sleep, Scott grabbed Brains lightly by the shirt, and pulled him away from the couch. "Tell us about it later."

"Yes, someone needs to get some rest."

John didn't argue as Jeff pushed him down onto the pillow and pulled a fleece blanket up and over his chest to his neck. He closed his eyes and immediately fell into what seemed to be a state of perfect relaxation.

"I won't wake you up," Jeff said softly, watching the slow rise and fall of his son's chest. But John didn't hear him. The young man had already drifted off into sleep, his face calm with a look of almost childish innocence.

"Sleep well, John."

A/N: This chapter is dedicated to all of those people out there like me who are fans of John Tracy and can't seem to write too many words without coming back to him. :) I'd eventually like to run a little short story somewhere to tie up the loose ends with Alicia Berkman, but that's for another time. Until then, you'll just have to decide in your own mind what happened at NASA after John left. As is, this is unofficially Part I of IIIof John's story.

Thank-you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! Sorry about taking so long with this chapter – I didn't realise how close my lab finals were until they started kicking me in the rear. Also, a big thank-you goes to Ariel D (again ;) ) for beta reading this chapter. Thank-you!

(guiltly plug for the day) Check out "In the Lobby" if you're looking for something else to read until I post Winds again. It's a prologue to Winds that I posted in response to a fanfic contest. (end guilty plug) :)

barb from utah – It's great to see another reader! I'm really glad that you're enjoying it. Given that you're a parent yourself (I remember you saying it on another review) I'm really flattered by your compliment about Jeff. I find him the hardest person to write, because he's so much older than I am:)

Math Girl – Hey, don't worry about it. And starting next chapter, John will begin to undergo a slow and subtle change that will become noticeable by the end of the story. Virgil does have little parts all the way through and Gordon shows up more later, but for the next two chapters it will mostly be John. :)

Ariel D – It means so much to hear you say that. Thank-you. :) I actually tried really hard to capture the feel of the television pilot episode "Trapped in the Sky". I don't know if I completely succeeded, but it was my intent to make this chapter every bit as exciting as that episode was.

Assena – Thank-you, and you're welcome:) Oddly enough, I think Ariel also used the word "sweetheart" when describing John during her beta read. lol Gordon will be showing up throughout the story, though. Heck, someone has to annoy Alan. ;)

Marblez – For some reason I'm thinking of that scene from Spirited Away where the frog spirit is jumping around chanting and cheering with the oriental fans . . . or maybe I'm just tired and need more sleep. :)

ms. imagine – I know what you mean . . . I just finished writing most of the end of the story, and I had a really hard time writing Gordon's accident. As much as he's a little rascal sometimes, I honestly suffered from writer's block whenever it came to writing the emotional scenes. I'm glad to hear that you like it, though. :) It's great to have another reader.

zeilfanaat – lol Don't worry about reviewing Midnight Musings. I'm glad that you enjoyed it! Hopefully you liked this chapter too. I mean, it has John in it. ;) I'm so close to finishing this story, then maybe I'll have more time to edit and post it. lol It's been quite a ride so far, and I've only posted 1/3 of it! (cringes) Oh man, now she's going to flaunt, zeil . . . lol!

andrewjameswilliams – Ah yes, the proper uniforms. All in due time. :) Actually, the next set of chapters (I'm throwing out seven as a number, but don't trust me on it) take place all in a three to six month period after this one. They all follow one after another pretty quickly. But they'd better, because I have a lot of story left and only a few years to do it in! lol

the peace pixie – lol Scott just fits right into the part of the commander – my sister calls him Junior Jeff. :)

Catch next chapter for Part II of III of this set of chapters, entitled, "Thunderbird Five" . . . it's time for John to spread his wings and soar. Until then, FAB, all.