Dislcaimer: Thunderbirds is the property of Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, as well as Carlton and Universal. No profit is intended to be made from this story; it is for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended, and none should be inferred. All original characters are the property of the author. This story should not be used or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.
The Voice of IR
April 2018
Often times, during the quietest and calmest parts of the night, John Tracy found himself wide-awake and unable to sleep. It was inevitable, of course, given how much he had to do during the day. His daytime hours were generally filled with mindless tasks that, although enjoyable, did not give him the opportunity to exercise his imagination.
And, like anything else, that part of his body needed to be used. The hours when he was supposed to sleep, the time of the day when he was normally undisturbed was perfect for that. As much as he tried to fall asleep, the alluring promise of letting his mind wander often won the battle. In many ways, he had discovered, the semi-coherent state that he fell into was just as relaxing and resting than any form of sleep he could find up on the space station.
So it was that he lay uncovered on his bed, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling while his mind wandered about the remote and dusty corners of the universe. It had been a while since he had actually set himself down with the intention of sleeping, and the procession of dancing imaginary stars across the ceiling was a sign that his mind was beginning to shut off for the night. His imagination tended to run away when his body grew tired.
That was, perhaps, just as well. It had been a long day, and sometimes sleep was preferable to the alternative. John knew that he suffered from some acute form of insomnia, but he also knew that rest would come if he simply let his mind run its course.
Out of nowhere, a loud siren intruded on his thoughts, sending the sprawling planetary nebula scattering and driving him upright on the bed. Grabbing his face in surprise, John took a long breath to stop his body from shaking. A quick glance at the clock showed him that it was not even dawn at the island, meaning that the rest of his family would still be asleep.
Dragging himself out of bed, John wearily padded out of the room in the general direction of the command centre. He had no intention of waking up his father until absolutely necessary, but it bothered him to see that he had spend almost the entire night staring up at the ceiling. He knew that his mind liked to be active at night, but it had never been quite that bad.
Maybe the rescue call wasn't such a bad thing, then.
Startled by his thoughts, John shook his head and gave himself a very hard mental slap. Rescue calls were never a good thing. Either he was tired and wasn't thinking straight, or he was beginning to feel too far removed from the actual horror of the accidents to react to them fully. It was the latter option that truly scared him, for he had never ever thought of himself as being the type of person that could laugh off personal trauma.
Determined to prove himself wrong on that account, John quickly sat down in the command chair and booted up the monitor screens. A few seconds passed before the screens charged, during which John had time to grab a cup of coffee from under the computer console.
He always kept something handy in case he needed to work through the night, and after almost a month of cold coffee he was gradually growing accustomed to it. There was the microwave, of course, which had been ferried up to the station the past week, but it was stowed away somewhere in the kitchen and was far enough removed that John didn't feel he had time to seek it out.
The computer chimed as the screens came online, flooding the dimly lit station with a glaring white glow. Taking a final sip from his cup, John set the coffee down on the counter and began his work.
A quick check with the computer showed that a distress call had - and still was, he noted - been recorded in the vicinity of the Swiss Alps. The signal was faint but constant, and a little bit more digging on John's part revealed a string of transmissions in the area that were both frantic and angry.
Even with only a month of work under his belt, John was experienced enough to locate the source of the trouble in less time than it had taken for the computers to load. He frowned as he scanned the data that the computer was sending him, his face furrowing even deeper as the severity of the situation finally settled in.
The men over the radio, who seemed to be part of an Alpine rescue team, had a right to be angry. An entire section of snow on one of the skiing peaks had broken away, causing an avalanche, and it looked as though the entire situation could have been avoided had the morning avalanche preventive measures been carried out properly. But someone had goofed up, and the slope had been opened for business even though the chances of an avalanche had been severe.
From the rescue reports he heard that at least twenty people were missing on the slopes, and that the avalanche had also covered over a train from the mountain monorail, burying it and the passengers under dozens of feet of snow. The train hadn't skidded the tracks, but the same device that had kept it from jumping and crashing had held it in place to be covered by the drifts.
The air supply in the monorail wouldn't hold for long, but it was the people on the slopes that were the priority. Their air supply was even less, to the extreme of being a few minutes at most in length, and the direct pressure of the snow on their bodies would be enough to cause extreme hypothermia after only a few minutes being buried by the avalanche.
John knew from close experience - having skied several times in his life - that being buried under the white powder was closely akin to being thrown into hell. He had almost been buried himself, many years ago when his mother had still been alive, and he had never forgotten the terror of the experience. Only he had been lucky enough to be pulled out quickly, by his mother, before hypothermia had set in.
And then there was the monorail itself, a craft that may as well have been taken from a horror movie for all the feelings that it stirred inside of him. Memories tried to crawl back into his conscious mind, but he physically shook his head and willed them back into the corner where he kept them buried.
"Okay," John muttered, his mind launching into the calm and professional program that always ran when he was on duty, "let's get things started." Keying up the remote access screen, John quickly established a link with the island. The situation required more than his hand, and his family would need time to prepare the equipment.
A few minutes passed in silence. Finally, the screen blinked once and the unshaven face of his brother Scott appeared on the monitor.
"Rescue?" The other man's voice was tired sounding, and his eyes suggested that he was only half awake.
"Rescue," John confirmed, "Switzerland. Tell Dad he'll need Pod Five with the snow equipment. Oh, and bring Thunderizer."
"Lasers?"
"For the snow. You can lower the intensity of the beam. It'll help you to dig out the people."
"From what?"
John almost laughed at how asleep his brother still was. Of course, he hadn't actually stated what type of rescue it was, but generally Scott was keen enough to catch on with little trouble. "Avalanche, Swiss Alps."
The repetition of the location suddenly sank in with the older Tracy. Scott seemed to shake off all signs of weariness almost immediately, and his eyes became alert and focused. There was no disguising the sudden and burning fire in his eyes. "I'll go wake up Dad. Give me ten minutes and I'll be on my way."
John nodded in response, already running a remote pre-flight diagnostic of Thunderbird One in order to speed up the process. "Right. I'll have the ship ready for you when you get there. Try and hurry, Scott. These people need help."
His brother nodded and disappeared from the screen.
Sighing, John finished up the check-list and turned back to the disaster read-outs. The rescue crews onsite were making little progress, for the snow was thick and the avalanche covered many of the access roads around and up to the accident area. Twenty people had already been uncovered from the slopes, but those who were still missing appeared to be unlocated.
"Almost an hour to Switzerland," John muttered, frustration rising in him as he considered how long it would take Scott to arrive on the scene. Even though he had intercepted the accident report almost immediately after the avalanche had occurred, it still did not seem to be quick enough.
But there was that first transmission, the one from the low powered receiver . . . the one that had completely escaped John's mind. Without even thinking, he brought up the frequency onto the screen and quickly set the Thunderbird Five transmitters to a different global position. With the new modifications to the station that had been installed when he had taken over, John could afford to spend half of his transmitting power to try and hunt down the person in distress.
Once the station was set, John adjusted his headset and settled into his chair. His hand reached out to flip the switch, then stopped above the console as he suddenly changed his mind. If he activated the transmitter, then -
He would have to talk to the person on the other end.
John was completely unable to choose a course of action. On one hand, he knew that he had known when he had taken the job that he would have to eventually make contact with someone who was in trouble. He had accepted that at the time, and simply shrugged it off in the unconscious hope that the problem would go away.
On the other hand . . . a part of him shouted, quite emphatically, that there was no way in hell that he would talk to anyone over the radio. He wasn't a person who liked to socialise to begin with, and the thought of talking to a completely unknown person almost made his skin crawl.
But the person was in trouble. Whoever it was on the other end of the line needed help, and if there was any remote possibility that he could give them any form of assistance, then he had no choice.
He didn't want to, he really didn't want to do it at all, but he had to do it. John could think of few things that he had ever done that were harder than reaching over and activating the transmitter and receiver set. Audio blared over the speakers as soon as his fingers made contact with the console. There was not just one voice, a fact that surprised him, but several other ones in the background that meshed together into a chaotic warble that almost hurt his ears.
And then it dawned upon him where the person was transmitting from.
"Can anyone hear me? Hello? Shit, I still can't get through. Oh God, we must be buried thick. Maybe the cell tower's down as well."
The voice spoke in vaguely accented English, a small comfort in what was turning into a frightening situation.
He had no idea what to say. What was he supposed to do? There was no need to ask the man for information given where he was transmitting from. Maybe there were wounded on board, but even that would have to wait. There was nothing that he could do . . . and nothing that he could ask would help. It would only make him more concerned if he knew that they were in serious trouble. They would have to wait until real help arrived . . .
"Sir, can you hear me?"
He had no idea why he said the words. His entire being wanted to crawl away under a bed, wanted to leave the accident to his brothers, wanted to get away from the slowly re-occurring memories that were being released in his mind.
But he did know, perhaps, why he had spoken. He knew why he had to speak to the man: only he, in the entire world, had the transmitting power to reach to the man. And if he were in the same position, he knew what he would want to hear - a voice, any voice, coming from the phone. A reassuring voice, a calm voice that could be depended upon to fix the situation.
And so, he repeated the words, a little louder and surer, so that the man could hear him. "Sir? Sir? Are you there?"
It was amazing, how silent the line from the phone had suddenly become. Then, quietly, a voice replied, "Is someone there?"
"Yes."
There was a garble of sound as the man relayed the message to the other people in the train, his voice incredulous. "Dear God, I can't believe it. Where are you? Can you find us?"
For the first time since he had joined the organization, John Tracy opened his mouth and said the words that the rest of his family had said so many times before: "I'm with International Rescue. Our crew will be with you as soon as they can. Please try to stay calm."
There was a power in those words that scared John to the core, for they seemed to carry the ability to instil in any man or woman the feeling of hope. The influence was not only over others, however, but over his own mind as well. John hardly recognized the voice that came from his lips, for it sounded so comfortable and in control of the situation that it couldn't be his own.
"Jesus, you don't know how glad I am to hear that! Are they coming soon?"
"We'll have you out of there as quickly as possible," John replied, trying to dance around any specific numbers. "How many of you are there?"
"Thirty seven," the man replied after a few moments delay. "We were travelling back to the station, and the train seemed to –"
Jump the tracks. Shaking his head, John didn't even have to hear the man say the words to know what he meant. It was all horribly familiar to him, and the words formed as a deep pit of sickness in his stomach.
"Is anyone hurt?"
"I don't know." The reply was strained. "People are bleeding, I think some guy has a broken leg. Shit, I don't know. Maybe they're fine. Maybe they're dying. I'm not a doctor. The train's still on the ground, though. Lord knows how it stayed on the rails. But the snow went right over top of us!"
"Try and keep calm." To the cynical part of his mind, those words were like poison. "Listen, is anyone bleeding heavily? Are any of the injuries life-threatening?"
"I don't think so."
"All right. If anyone shows signs of going into shock or passing out, tell me immediately."
"Are you gonna stay on the line?"
"Of course." A grimace slowly etched itself across John's face. He had no idea what he was doing, he had no idea how he was supposed to handle the situation – and yet he had no intention of leaving the people on the train alone to face their horrors.
"It's cold like hell."
He was scared, he realised. He was scared of what he would hear. He was scared of the memories that were forcing their way to the very surface of his mind, memories that he had fought to subdue since he had first arrived on Thunderbird Five. But he couldn't be scared. That was a luxury reserved for those who were truly in danger.
It was that determination, that part of him that wanted to do for others what no one was able to do for his parents so many years ago, that washed any doubt away from his mind and replaced it with a startling degree of clarity.
"Try and keep together as a group, sir. It'll help conserve the heat." He had a job to do; it was that simple. He couldn't be John Tracy, the kid who sat and ate lunch alone in the laboratory of the school, any longer.
He was the voice of International Rescue.
"Listen, sir, keep talking to me. If you can, try and involve everyone else. Help will come eventually, you just have to sit tight."
"Easy for you to say," the man scoffed, "where the hell are you anyway?"
"I can't tell you." John bit his lip, trying desperately to think of a way to answer the question that wouldn't compromise his security.
"You a pilot?"
"No. I'm –" he stopped suddenly, a thought dawning on him. "I'm the communications expert."
"Call boy?"
"I guess." John slapped himself mentally as his official façade slipped a little. "It's my job to search out rescue calls and locate the people in trouble."
"Jesus, you're a regular guardian angel, aren't you?"
The words rang rather uncomfortably against John's ears. He hated any types of religious comparisons, especially when they were made towards him, for he felt that very few people deserved that degree of praise. "Not really, sir. I'm just doing my job."
"Hold a sec," the man interrupted suddenly, "there's some kid here that wants to talk to you."
The frequency crackled as the phone was passed around. Finally, a young voice asked, "Mister, are you really a Thunderbird?"
Nothing could have prepared John for the question. He simply sat back in his chair as an incredulous – and vaguely moved – grin spread on his face, wondering how the reputation of their organisation had spread in such a short period of time. "You could say that. I work for International Rescue."
"But you fly Thunderbirds!"
"I don't fly . . ." John trailed off as he realised that he had nearly let go something very secret. "I don't fly a ship. But I do work for them."
"My sister and I always play Thunderbirds!" The boy's voice was so excited that the phone's receiver crackled a bit under the strain. "I always take Thunderbird One. It's the best ship. Is he coming soon?"
"Soon," John managed, still flabbergasted in spite of himself at the child's enthusiasm. It was to be expected, he supposed, but he had never dreamed how International Rescue would be received in the arms of the general public. He really wasn't comfortable with a young child treating him like a celebrity.
"Really? Can I meet him when he comes?"
"Maybe. We'll see what happens."
"He's real cool! I've read every story about him. Does he really talk like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like, 'We request that no pictures and photographs be taken'. Like that!"
John had to try very hard to hold back a snort. "I suppose he does. It's his job, though, and we try to be serious when it comes to that."
"So sometimes you're not serious?"
A chuckle finally escaped John's mouth, a quiet one that still had enough volume to carry across the communications network. "Yes. We're normal people just like you."
"Really? What's your name?"
That comment really hurt, because two very conflicting answers existed for it. John knew that he likely could give the child his name, being as common as it was, with little chance of consequence. But he didn't want to make a habit of becoming so . . . close to the people that he was dealing with. If he couldn't remain professional the first time, he would never be able to after that.
"I'm sorry, I can't tell you that."
Undaunted, the child replied, "Can I call you Bill? My uncle's name is Bill."
"Sure." The grin on John's face morphed unintentionally into a sad smile. "If you want."
"Mister Bill, if you don't fly rocket ships, what do you do?"
John decided that in the unlikely instance he ever had children himself, he would at least raise them to know when a question had already been asked. "I think I've already answered that."
"Yeah, but what do you do?"
Rolling his eyes, John took a quick glance at the screen and, seeing that Scott was prepping Thunderbird One for launch, replied, "I organise everything." It was a little bit of a white lie, but it was close enough to the truth for John's purposes that he didn't feel too badly about telling it. "And right now I've got to leave you for a minute so that I can help the other members get over to you. Is that okay?"
There was a pause. "Sure. I guess so."
"I'll be back soon," John assured the boy quietly, "and then we can talk some more. Until then, try and be happy, okay?"
"Okay Bill."
That was that. Switching lines to the IR frequency, John asked, "Scott, are you there?"
After a brief pause, the strong voice of his brother replied, "Thunderbird One here. I'm ready for take-off."
"Okay. Get going, Scott. Those guys are going to be running out of air."
"Right, John. I'll radio again when I'm near the site."
Nodding, John checked the screen again and saw that Thunderbird Two was finally being powered up. "Great. Scott, Dad's right behind you. If you need anything else just give me a call. Else, I'll talk again when you hit the hot spot. Thunderbird Five out."
One hour, John thought; he had one hour to wait until Scott was in Switzerland - one hour in which to talk to the people on the train in the hopes of keeping their spirits up. He prayed silently that the air supply would hold on the train. It probably would, given the size of the cars compared to the number of passengers on board, but there was also the possibility that by making them talk . . .
John shook the thought completely from his mind, focusing instead on the task at hand. There was no use on dwelling on what could be – or what had been, for that matter. The only thing that mattered was the present.
And this time, he thought with a touch of sad satisfaction, there was no danger of the train itself sliding so far off the tracks that it would fall over a small cliff. Apparently the new protocols for construction that had been introduced seven years ago worked well.
The frequency once again changed with the flip of a switch. "Kid, you there?"
"Bill?"
"Sure thing. Listen, why don't we have another chat. Sound all right?"
"Yeah."
"Why don't you turn up the volume on that phone so everyone can hear."
"Okay. I think they already can, though." The sound of the boy fumbling with the phone transferred easily over the radio. "Can we talk about your friends?"
"If you want," John laughed. He had one hour to talk, and it didn't really matter to him what they talked about. "Just remember that I can't answer anything that's too specific."
By the time that Thunderbird Two approached the disaster area, most of the clean-up on the ski slopes had already been taken care of by the local aid workers. From the air, Jeff Tracy could see people bustling about on the slopes, clearing up the area, and placing injured skiers onto stretchers so that they could be taken to a hospital for treatment.
The immediate concern now lay in the shuttle train, which was buried somewhere near the slopes under countless feet of snow.
As Two quickly approached the landing area, Jeff brought the craft down in a gentle arc and deployed the landing pylons. The ship shuddered as its retro thrusters kicked in, and he was thrown back in his seat as the craft finally touched down into the white powder of the mountainous region.
"Piece of cake," grinned Virgil Tracy, already unstrapping himself from the co-pilot's seat so that he could hurry to the back and ready the equipment. Halfway to the back of the cabin, he turned and continued, "It's too bad Scott couldn't have seen it. He's always talking about how easy it is to land Thunderbird One."
Jeff returned his son's smile and replied, "He's still busy closing down the main disaster area, Virgil. He said that he'd be busy with that for a while, so we're probably on our own with this one."
It didn't take long for Jeff and Virgil to collect the supplies needed to free the train. Stashing those in a pair of backpacks, the two men took seat in the cockpit of - and fired up - the full size laser cutter that they had brought with them in Thunderbird Two's bay. Virgil, with the practised ease of someone who regularly worked with heavy machinery, brought the device around in the bay and out the open door of the craft.
He'll be doing this on his own, someday, Jeff thought absently as he watched his son drive the vehicle over a set of snowdrifts. It was hard to think of a time when he wouldn't be involved in the organisation, but Jeff knew deep down that he would eventually be giving up the ships to his sons. There was still a job for him as commander, of course, but when age finally caught up with him . . .
"There." Virgil's words interrupted Jeff from his thoughts. "Over where the aid workers are. They're flagging us down." The chestnut-haired man glanced down at a sensor display, then nodded in confirmation of his own guess. "I'm getting a reading showing a metallic structure buried at least ten feet under the surface." His voice became suddenly hoarse. "Monorail. Still on the tracks, but it's buried real deep."
There was no time to give into the feeling of nausea that was rising in his chest. Shoving the feeling deep inside of his heart, Jeff looked to his son and nodded. "Then let's get to it." Not waiting for the vehicle to slow, Jeff jumped off the side, found his footing, and quickly made his way to the group of men and women that were digging at the train with shovels. A wave of his hand had their attention, and one woman stepped forward to greet him.
"International Rescue?" The woman spoke with a thick Swiss accent that was easily understandable. "It is good to see you. Your other man has already helped us on the ski slopes."
Smiling, Jeff pointed at the train and replied, "We should be able to help you here as well. If you can remove your personnel from the area, we can use our laser cutter to melt the snow and cut a hole in the train."
Her eyes widened and the woman quickly turned to her co-workers and yelled something in her own language. Within minutes the rest of the aid workers were gathered behind the laser cutter, watching in curiosity as Virgil adjusted the controls and took aim at the snow bank.
"Got it," he finally grunted, looking to his father for the command to shoot.
"Fire."
Pressing a button, Virgil activated the main power battery of the vehicle. The large laser nozzle on the end of the vehicle began to glow, and within moments it shot out a diffused beam directly at the snow. The snow bank jumped with the force of the energy, and clouds of steam rose in the air as ice crystals sublimated directly into water vapour. The young man's face narrowed in concentration as the side of the train gradually became revealed, and he adjusted the settings ever so slightly so as to cause the beam to focus into a single powerful ray that was barely the width of a human finger.
"If I turn this off, can you go and tell the people in the train to move over?"
Before Jeff could respond, his radio communicator crackled and another voice emanated from it.
"It's all right, Dad, I've got it handled."
Sure enough, the men and women in the train gradually moved over to one side, leaving Virgil plenty of room to lance through the structure with the beam.
"John?" Jeff looked over to Virgil, and by the young man's confused expression, he was likely thinking the same thing.
"Sure thing." The astronomer laughed over the comm system. "Anything else needing to be done?"
Shaking his head in surprise and relief, Jeff joined in the chuckle and responded, "Not right now, John. How long have you been in contact with them?"
"Most of the time you were flying."
That was a startling revelation to Jeff, who had come under the assumption that John had no desire and no plans to ever deal with the people that they rescued directly. Though John had often brought up the idea while speaking to his father, he had shown very little interest in actually bringing it into effect. But something had obviously changed, for John was not only in contact with the people, but he seemed to have earned a certain amount of respect from them that allowed him to order them around.
"Surprises, surprises," Jeff mused quietly to himself. Louder, so that Virgil could hear, he stated, "All right, John. Thanks for the help. Virgil!"
The young man grinned.
"Get to it."
"Right." Still smiling, the engineer brought the laser back to full power. The beam lanced forward towards the train and in an instant it connected with the siding, vaporising the metal and cutting a hole directly through the structure to the snow on the other side.
"We are going to have to fix that," Jeff muttered out loud, thinking that the cannon would likely be more useful if it could be programmed to simply cut through a single layer of metal. "I'll have to talk to Brains about it when we get back."
Several minutes later, the last of the siding was blasted away and the metal cut-out fell outward onto the snow. Aid workers rushed forward to help the freed people from the train, making sure that they did not trip on the burned metal or slip on the icy pathway created by the sublimated and subsequently refrozen water.
As Virgil shut down the laser cutter, Jeff made his way up to the train. Several thankful men and women patted him on the back as he went, their silent way of thanking him for his efforts. Finally, he caught up with the Swiss woman who was in charge. She was busy helping a young girl from the train, taking special care to not to disturb what appeared to be a twisted ankle. A young boy, no more than eight years old, followed closely behind her, his eyes staring wide-eyed at Thunderbird Two, which was close enough to garner attention.
"This is the last of them," the woman told Jeff calmly. "If you could watch this boy, then we could get them to the hospital for hypothermia treatment."
Jeff nodded, then kneeled down and rested his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Son, you'll have to follow me."
The boy's eyes grew even wider as Jeff spoke to him. "Mister, are you really a Thunderbird?"
A smile forced its way onto Jeff's lips. The boy reminded him so much of his own children that he couldn't help being touched by the child's innocence. "Yes I am. We're here to help."
And you're all safe this time. There are no casualties. This is why International Rescue was created. It's what it was meant to do. No one will die on a monorail anymore. Not if we can help it.
Jeff absently touched at his eyes, trying not to give any indication of the emotions that were banging at his internal barriers.
"Oh, I know." The boy laughed and pointed towards the ship. "I got to talk to Bill over that guy's - " he pointed at a man walking further up the path, "phone. It was real fun!"
"Bill?" Jeff shook his head, puzzled. "What did he . . ."
"He's the communi . . . " the boy stopped, obviously stuck on the word. "Comm . . . comm . . ."
"Communications expert?"
"Yeah! He said I could call him Bill, because he couldn't tell me his name, and my uncle's name is Bill."
The truth of the matter finally dawned upon Jeff, and it became impossible to restrain the laugh that was trying to escape his mouth. "So he talked to you?"
"Uh huh! He talked to everyone. I liked it."
And so, as he lead the boy down the bank towards the shelter, Jeff Tracy found himself puzzling over in his mind the mystery that was his second eldest son. What John had done for the people in the train had been beyond the call of duty - at least for him - and the benefits of his efforts were obvious. Jeff had expected to arrive at the scene to see countless worried and shock-stricken faces. Instead, he was confronted with adults and children alike who wore the faintest traces of smiles on their lips. Even those who had fallen into hysteria and were being taken away on stretchers seemed to be calmer than they should have been.
From the boy's animated chatter, it was plain to see that John had not simply distracted them. He had struck a chord, had managed to bond with the men and women in a way that went beyond common sense. For John - the young man who had said literally nothing, save required conversation, to anyone outside of his family for many years - to manage to befriend complete strangers in less than an hour . . .
Then it clicked in Jeff's brain, as suddenly as his own memories had resurfaced when he had first arrived at the accident site. "Son, when Bill," he nearly chuckled at the name, "talked to you, did he say anything . . . special?"
"Kind of." The boy nodded, suddenly serious in the way that children could become serious when they have to be. "He said something similar happened to him when he was my age - "
That was a bit of a stretch, Jeff thought, but nothing truly important when it came down to it. John hadn't been on the train himself . . .
" - and he didn't want us to be scared. He was real fun to talk to."
As the words settled into Jeff's brain, he came to understand how truly miraculous the rescue had actually been. And it was not a miracle for the people in the train, though it surely seemed that way to them. No, it was a miracle for the young man who spent his life up in space, staring at the stars, lost in his own thoughts. The similarity of the rescue, the pain of the memories that had likely surfaced, had cut through a layer of protective ice around the young man, revealing something that had lay hidden for so long.
The part of his son that had been buried under the burning steel of a monorail had finally awakened. The John Tracy known to his family - a quiet yet determined boy who had been a leader for his siblings for so many years - had finally poked his head out into the real world.
"So can I see the rocket ship? Bill said I could."
Fighting back a feeling of incredulity about the day in general, Jeff chuckled and replied, "Maybe. We'll see. Bill said that?"
"Well . . ." The boy looked towards the ground. "He said maybe I could. So could I?"
Taking a look around at the accident scene, Jeff decided that it couldn't hurt to walk the boy up a bit closer. Even if he saw too much, children's memories – especially those of excited children – could not always be trusted, and he likely wouldn't be able to give anyone reliable information about the ships. "I'll see what I can do."
Several hours after the final clean-ups had been completed, the rescue craft took to the air and began the long and tedious journey back to Tracy Island. The European airways were filled with helicopters and media craft, and it took all of John's attention to keep the ships directed on a course away from the action. The spy satellites monitoring the area also had to be baffled, which grabbed at the remaining portion of the space monitor's mind.
By the time that Thunderbirds One and Two were sailing gracefully over the Pacific Ocean, John had had more than enough of his duties for the day. No matter how hard he tried to fix them and reduce the glare, the computers screens still wore on his eyes, and the constant tension that he was in while monitoring the radar read-outs didn't help one bit.
"All clear to home," Virgil sighed happily over the comm channel, obviously as relieved as John that the day was nearly over. "I thought we'd never get out of there."
The radio crackled, and Scott's voice quickly jumped in. "I could have been home and back already, but at the speed that your hulking monstrosity moves . . ."
"You say things like that about this ship, and I'll make sure that you're the one driving it next, Scott Tracy. We could switch craft when Virgil goes back to school."
"Dad, please. He'd destroy the engines trying to make it go as fast as One."
"Point taken, Virgil. Scott?"
"Yeah?"
"Sit back and be quiet. It's been a long day for all of us."
Isn't that the truth? "You could always send him up here with me," John put in, unable to resist. "Out here in the cold, dark reaches of the universe."
"I'd go mad," the older boy replied seriously. "Nowhere to go, nothing to do."
John smiled, having anticipated his brother's response long before he had said it. "You might like it."
"Nah. The sky is the limit, John, and you're way past the sky."
"Scott, let's leave your brother be. I think it'd be good to let him take a break. He's been on call longer than the rest of us."
Appreciating the gesture, John still felt the need to make sure that his family made it home. "Dad, are you sure? Thunderbird Five's artificial intelligence is nowhere near to being perfect. You could run into a missile before you even see it coming."
"No." The older man's voice was firm. "No John, you sound exhausted. Don't pretend otherwise. I want you to close up shop and go to bed."
"Dad-"
"I could make that an order." There was more intent in the statement than humour. "Do I make myself clear?"
Giving in, and knowing that even if he tried to argue with his father he would likely lose, John sighed and nodded absently to his empty surroundings. "I copy that. Do you need anything before I go?"
For a moment there was only the silent hiss of the radio channel. Then, the older man stated, in a great deal less formal tone, "Only to thank you. You did good today, John. What you did for those people was above and beyond the call of duty. I'm proud of you. We had a very stressful situation on our hands, and you dealt with it with an incredibly cool head."
John didn't have to look in a mirror to know that a furious blush was spreading across his face. The blush still embarrassed him even though his family couldn't see it, and that thought only made the red colour deepen. He knew perfectly well what he had done that day. It was wonderful to hear his father say the words, and yet John felt that they were not needed. He felt that, against a level of adversity that he had only challenged once in his life, he had managed to simply do the duty that was expected of him.
"It was nothing," he finally answered back, his voice barely audible. "It had to be done."
That was the exact truth. It had to be done. There had been no room for feelings of discomfort, nor time for him to hide and cower in fear. He had been forced to weigh two things, and had found the one distinctly more important than the other.
And so his fear, a child's fear, had been pushed to the side. It was simply ironic that a monorail, of all things, had given back to him what had been taken away, by a monorail, so many years ago.
"Can I count on you to do that next time?"
That was the question, really. This had been a special situation, caused by built up emotions and memories connected the area of the rescue. Could he really do it again in a situation where there was no emotional tie to the victims?
But then, did it really matter where it happened? What mattered was not where it happened – where his mother had been killed – but that it had happened in the first place. And so he was back to the conclusion that he had reached when he had first decided to step foot onto the station.
International Rescue needed him. They needed him to be the best operator that he could be, and if that meant speaking to the victims . . .
Once he considered it, John knew the answer and spoke it before it ever truly crossed his mind. "Of course."
Scott's irritated snort immediately shook John from his introspection. "Oh good, does that mean more kids coming to look at the ships?"
"Scott," put in Virgil immediately, "give it up. I think you would've done the exact same thing at that age. Now quit being such a grump today. You're tired of flying, and we're tired of listening to you complaining about being tired of flying. Now say sorry to John or I'm going to have to kick your ass when we get home."
"Virgil! Scott! I have the power to ground both of you if you so choose!"
"Oh fine, Dad. I'm sorry, John. I didn't mean it that way. I'm just concerned about the secrecy-"
"Of the organization," John finished politely, a smile returning to his lips. "I know. We've banged that into your head too many times. Dad, maybe you should take Scott's job for a bit just so he can take a break and relax."
The older man chuckled. "That's a good idea. Now, why don't you turn off that computer and go get some rest? We're all a little uptight I think. I'll probably turn in myself when we get back."
There was no escaping it.
Deciding that his father was probably right, John returned the laugh and stood up from his chair. "All right. I'm going." He stretched his arms out, sighing as the kinks came out of his back, then reached back to the computer. "See you later, guys."
The three men responded with varying versions of well wishes. Once they were finished, John flipped off the transmitter and set the computer to standby. The lights dimmed and the whirring noise of the computer dropped to a low hum as the circuits went into power-save mode.
"What a day." Suddenly very exhausted, John let himself fall back onto his chair, savouring the comfortable feel of the material with the hope that he might be able to fall asleep there and not have to walk to his room.
So many things had happened that day, he thought, so many things that had been completely beyond his control. He had done the unthinkable – he had pushed aside a fear that he had had since he had been twelve years old and had blindly and unselfishly lead a group of people to the hope that they had needed to survive. Old memories, memories that he had been trying to banish but refused to leave completely, had pointed him in a direction that he had nearly missed –
A direction towards the path of healing.
But now that he'd experienced it, there was no turning back now. For as much as he felt guilty admitting it, it had felt oddly . . . fulfilling to throw aside his doubts and do what he knew had to be done. It was another of those addicting sensations that would likely snag him and try to keep hold of him forever.
But was this one really so bad? The last time he had had the problem it had only sent him on a path that had spiralled downward. This task, though, this . . . feeling that had captured him . . . it was born not of feelings for himself, but of feelings for others.
There could be worse things to devote your life to, John decided. And yet it was not that thought which completely solidified the decision in his mind.
It was the knowledge that, if he could somehow hang onto the person that he had been before he'd allowed himself to lose control, if he could find something that would allow him to return to a time before all the trouble had begun . . . then perhaps things would finally be all right.
"It's been a while since I've played with a CB set." The stars twinkled brightly out the window as he spoke, their soft light playing across the thick transparent material of the hull.
I guess it's not that different. I was never very good at it. Dad always said my voice was too quiet, that I was too shy to be a proper broadcaster. So I took to building the kits instead. But if I can keep up one of my old hobbies, why not the other? If I can learn to fly and go into space when everyone told me it wouldn't happen, then I should be able to do this. Maybe I won't be the best operator in the world. But I'll try, because someone has to. Maybe I can make things just a tiny bit easier for the people in trouble. It wouldn't be much, but maybe it'll be enough.
As his thoughts came together, John Tracy found himself satisfied with the decision that he had reached. I don't want to be anywhere else, he thought with a vague sense of pride. This is where I belong. I don't want to be doing anything else either.
"They're stuck with me now," John grinned in amusement, finally finding the resolve to drag himself from the chair back onto his feet. As he made his way down the hall to his room, he couldn't glancing back at the picture of his mother which sat on his desk. "Good-night Mom."
And for once he didn't feel a twinge of pain when the call went unanswered, as he had every day since he had decided that his dependency had to end. Instead, John felt as though a great burden had finally been lifted from his shoulders, a burden that had been dragging him down as long as he could remember.
For Lucy Tracy was at rest in spirit, and he was finally at rest in heart.
A/N: I need to take a moment to address a serious issue that has come up since my last posting. Fanfiction, though the copyright is owned by the respective companies, is still protected under the domestic copyright of the writer. It is illegal to copy fan fiction without authorial permission, or to claim it as your own when it isn't. This past week I was alerted that someone had posted Chapter One of "Winds" onto two of their MSN Groups sites, claiming it as their own work and ignoring any requests to have it removed. With much work and patience, one of the sites has been removed and the other is on a warning. Readers, if you come across a website that has stolen fan fiction, please bring it to the attention of the authors. And if things are amiss, don't sit still and let it happen. Make sure people know it is stolen. E-mail the site in question. With your help we can stop this from happening in the future. A website with no credibility can't do any damage if it steals material. Beyond that, I can't ask for anything else of you. As readers, you already do enough to make writing fan fiction more than worthwhile, and I thank you for that. :)
That said, I need to thank Ariel D for beta reading this past chapter again. Your comments are ever helpful, especially when it comes to fixing pacing. (grins) But the monorail can be on and off the tracks at the same time! ;)
Also, thank you to the reviewers!
Ariel D - I enjoyed writing the banter myself. ;) (grins) Oh, poor Zeil! lol You must be planning something big if you're hoarding the FPs. ;)
Mcj - Hey, it's good to hear from you. :D Coming from someone who has carried a few 'big' stories herself, I'm glad to hear that it hasn't disappointed thus far. I hope you'll see what you're looking for in future chapters - there will definitely be a strain on some relationships as the boys go their 'separate' ways.
Ms. Imagine - Thank you! I'm not used to writing suspense, so I'm glad to see that the chapter came across as intended. Scott's personality changed so many times as I was writing it, until I finally settled on something that worked.
Clairie - Where? You'll see. When? Next chapter. Chewing out? Very likely. ;D
Princess Tyler Briefs - You'll find out. ;) Nope, you didn't miss it. It's in Chapter 24. (grins) And now that you've had a little short preview for Chapter 25, you can have something to look forward too. ;)
Barb from Utah - Thank you! I find that small details are what make a story memorable, because it's those details that latch onto your mind. :)
Assena - Oh, I haven't forgotten about the scene in "Perils". ;) As you may have noticed, Virgil hasn't met Penny yet. So keep that in mind later, because I think you'll notice a nice little bit of interaction between Virgil and Scott when it comes to that.
Andrewjameswilliams - Absolutely. :) And you'll see how the Scott/Penny situation pans out next chapter.
Marblez - Soon, soon. ;) I'm taking two summer classes right now, so I'm doing the editing in between my other work. :)
Zeilfanaat - I know you're reading. ;) (grins) So I hoped you liked this chapter as well.
Catch next chapter, "Agents", where an old friend of the family comes to visit Tracy Island. Until then, FAB all!