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.

A/N: Remember to check my author profile page (just click on my user name) for extended author notes and review responses! Also, there is now a forum open for story discussion. If anyone has any questions, just throw them there, and I'll be able to answer them for everyone to see. :)

Blood is Thicker Than Water: Part 2b
Reaction II
May 2019

"I brought you some coffee."

Looking up at Scott, who held an expresso cup at arms length, Jeff Tracy smiled faintly and accepted the cup from his son. "Thanks."

"Any news?"

The other man shook his head - and resumed staring absently about the room.

Taking care not to spill his own drink, Scott sat down in the chair next to his father. The waiting room was reserved specifically for the families of patients who were in surgery. A warm shade of mauve coloured the walls, and the occasional medical poster was the only decoration in the room save for the television that was bolted in an upper corner. The entire suite smelled of hospital cleaner and the sickening scent of disposable gloves.

The stark quality of his surroundings gnawed at Scott's nerves. He wished that there were something in the room to keep his attention other than the diabetes posters and the annoying news program with the man that never seemed to stop smiling. The tension between him and his father and the silent but burning fear for the young man who was in the operating room kept them from saying much. There was nothing to say, really.

Scott looked up as the door to the room creaked open, and a nurse in white hospital clothing stepped in. She was followed by a man and a woman in their mid forties, who wore on their faces the same feeling that Scott felt deep inside him. The woman carried in her hands a crumbled Kleenex, and her cheeks were blotchy as though she had been crying.

"You can wait in here," the nurse instructed warmly, pointing at any number of the other seats in the room. "If we have any news regarding your son either myself or one of the other nurses will come and tell you."

"Thank you," the woman replied feebly, forcing a smile onto her face that only succeeded in making her look that much more upset.

Nodding, the nurse smiled back and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

As if just noticing that the room already had occupants, the woman looked to her husband, then to Scott and his father, then back to her husband with an expression of subtle confusion.

"Feel free to sit anywhere," Scott finally offered quietly, trying to insert a sense of support into his voice. That was a task in itself, given how his voice had taken to shaking ever since he had arrived at the hospital. "We don't have a claim on the seats."

The friendly tone of his voice seemed to break the ice, for the woman walked over to the seats across from Scott and Jeff, her husband following closely behind her. She sat down carefully, placed the Kleenex on the arm of the chair, and then gave Scott an unsure smile. "Thank you."

Frowning internally at how awkward the situation had become, Scott set his steaming coffee down on the arm of his own chair and leaned forward so he could speak to the woman. "If you need anything you can just ask me. I've been running in and out of here getting coffee for me and my dad, so it wouldn't be any trouble to grab something else."

"Don't feel an obligation to," interrupted the man, his voice strained but nevertheless firm and in control.

"No, I insist." Jumping into the conversation, the older Tracy nodded briefly at the other man then continued. "We're all in the same boat here. Scott can get you whatever you need."

The two men locked gazes for a moment, until the other man nodded and sat back in his seat. "Good of you to say that."

"I try to help when I can." It's habit, Scott thought with a trace of amusement. If only you knew. "It doesn't hurt to give someone a hand when they need it."

Touching her husband ever so slightly on the arm, the woman whispered, just loud enough for Scott to catch it, "Honey, we haven't introduced ourselves yet."

"Right." The man slapped his knee intently, then held out his hand to Scott. "Harry Lynfield. This is my wife, Amy."

Shaking the man's hand firmly, Scott replied, "Good to meet you. I'm Scott, and this," he let go of Harry's hand so the man could in turn shake Jeff's, "is my father."

"Jeff," the older man added, grasping Harry's hand firmly in his.

"Jeff . . ." Harry waved his other hand absently as if trying to catch something he couldn't see.

"Erm . . ."

Scott could understand his father's hesitation at revealing his last name. There were plenty of other Tracys in the United States, but more often than not people were able to associate the name Jeff Tracy with Tracy Industries, and then subsequently realised how much money the man likely had in his pocket. It was sad, how often people jumped to conclusions about the man without even getting to know him.

"Tracy," his father finally answered, shaking his shoulders ever so slightly in resignation. "Jeff Tracy."

"Tracy!" Harry's eyes went wide and he unconsciously let go of the other man's hand. "As in Jeff Tracy, corporate CEO of Tracy Industries?"

Scott cringed.

His father nodded, his eyes showing signs of weariness at the other man's words.

"What are you doing here, then?"

"Harry!" Her face suddenly animated, Amy reached a hand and gave her husband a good swat across the back of the head. "Have some manners!"

"My brother's in the hospital," Scott remarked softly, trying his best to keep the conversation civilised. "He was in a boat accident at the marina."

Both Harry and Amy froze where they were and regarded Scott with mild shock. "But we drove by that on the way here!" Harry said. "It looked like a disaster zone." Stopping suddenly, a look of apology crossed the man's face, and when he spoke again it was in a much more subdued tone. "How many survived?"

That was a difficult question to answer. "One. Maybe." Scott met his father's gaze out of the corner of his eyes, and he knew the man was thinking what he was thinking.

"He'll make it," Jeff stated flatly, though his eyes reflected thoughts of a very different kind. "Gordon's always been strong." The words were half out of the man's mouth when his voice began, ever so slightly, to waver. A stranger would see nothing out of the ordinary on his face, but Scott, having been raised by the man since birth, could see that his father was straining to hold back tears.

"Oh." The other couple looked at each other, a silent dialogue passing between them. "Oh," they repeated, finding no other words to offer.

"Our son developed an acute case of appendicitis," Amy finally explained slowly. "But they think he'll be fine. It was just the shock of it that hurt so much. It was horrible to see him in so much pain . . ." She paused - as if to compose herself. "He'll be all right, though. The doctors said it's pretty simple in terms of surgeries. Nothing to worry about, really."

The four sat in silence then, looking at each other but unable to find conversation to break the wall of tension that had once again formed. Finally, sick of sipping coffee, Scott turned to Harry and asked, "What do you do?"

The other man jumped, then laughed quietly at his stupidity. "Job, you mean? Nothing real special. I fly, for the most part. Commercial jets, private flights - that type of thing. I'd be off somewhere right now except I'm on vacation." He sighed. "Seems lately that a lot of folks aren't even interested in it as a career. They want better paying jobs – lawyers, doctors . . ."

"No!" Surprised in spite of his best efforts to hold the emotion in, Scott found a grin seeping onto his face at the man's words. "Hell, no! I fly too."

"Really? I thought you'd be helping your father . . ."

"We both fly," Jeff added in, finally distracted from his worry about Gordon. "I flew with the Airforce before I joined NASA's astronaut corps. Scott used to be part of the Airforce. Now he helps ferry supplies around for the company." The two men shared a secretive grin at the lie.

Harry's smile of incredulity broadened, and he grinned at his wife. "Who'd have thought? I'd forgotten about that. No one talks about you being an astronaut, though. Not anymore." He thought for a moment, tapping his finger absently on his knee. "What kind of plane?"

"Almost anything," Scott replied, "that you can think of. Jet, prop, fighter, scram-"

"You've flown a scram?"

Beating himself mentally, Scott closed his eyes and counted very slowly to ten. His emotions were getting the better of him and the adrenaline of the moment had lead to him to the revelation that could very well turn hazardous for the organisation. "Not a real one, just a mock-up. Something the air force was working on." He hoped the lie would be enough.

It was, for Harry sighed in disbelief. "Amy, did you hear that? A scram, a real scram!"

"I heard," the woman laughed sarcastically, obviously used to her husband's enthusiasm with his profession. "And I'll probably hear about it for the next three months now."

"You know what I'd like to get my hands on, though?" The man's eyes went wide. "That ship those International Rescue people have! I actually saw it one time when I was at the airport. A friend of mine was flying one of the super-sonic jets, those Fireflash craft, and had to make a forced landing with their help because his plane's landing gear was sabotaged. I was bringing my jet home just as they were leaving. God, Amy, I tell you, that ship just went straight up and disappeared! The engines it must have on it . . ."

All the while the woman smiled knowingly, patiently waiting for her husband to finish.

"What I'd give just to get within ten feet of that ship! My life savings, I tell you!"

"Honestly, Harry, you've got to give up on that." The woman patted her husband's arm. "You know how they are with security. Why would they give someone like you the chance to look at their equipment?"

"You never know." Shaking off his father's sudden glare, Scott held up his hands and shrugged. "Maybe you'll get closer to it sometime. They're out an awful lot, you know. It could happen."

Jeff's look said it all. "Forget about it, Scott."

"Why not?"

"We can't trust them."

"You trusted the Belagant's."

It was amazing how much could pass between the two without any words being spoken. Barely a second had passed, and Scott already knew that he had the upper hand in the argument. He could see his father weighing the options in his mind. There was a security risk involved, but there was also the opportunity to hire on another agent for the organisation. Having a man from the commercial airline business involved could be very important later on.

But there was another factor involved. The Lynfields had, for the time being, offered the pair an important distraction from reality. That gift from them, however unintentional, was priceless and could likely never be repaid in any monetary value. Scott knew, though, how much his father hated being in debt to a person, and how much the older man tried to repay those who helped him.

And at the moment, there was no other way to even try to quell the nausea that was still threatening to overcome him. He had to be the field commander here, if simply just to survive the whole ordeal. It was denial, Scott knew, but he couldn't help it. It was how he dealt – how he had learned to deal – with crisis, and he couldn't abandon it anymore than Gordon could simply walk out of the operating theatre unscathed.

For Gordon's sake, Scott had to be in one piece when his brother woke up.

"They seem like good people, Dad."

The other man arched an eyebrow just enough that it was noticeable to Scott. "I'll have to run a background check."

Scott returned the facial gesture. "Go for it."

"I have to make a phone call," the older man declared suddenly, rising from his seat and heading to the door. "I hope you don't mind."

"No, not at all," replied the other man. He turned back to Scott. "What was it like? The scram?"

"Oh Harry!" Rubbing her face, Amy apologised, "I'm sorry . . ." Her face blanked when she tried to think of the older Tracy's name.

"Jeff."

"Jeff, then. He can be very one-track minded sometimes."

"It's all right. Scott, will you be all right?"

Given the circumstances, the answer was obvious. All the same, Scott nodded and replied, "Sure thing. Go give John a call, see how close Virgil and Alan are."

Returning the nod, his father pulled the door closed as he left.

Biting his lip in concentration, John studied something off screen, thought for a moment, then nodded. "There's nothing wrong with them," he finally said at length. "Records are clear, no criminal history. For all I can tell they're a normal working class family whose son is currently checked in at the same hospital as Gordon."

"Right," Jeff sighed, studying the portable communications device that was aptly disguised as a personal organiser. He had managed to find an empty washroom on the floor of the building, quickly securing it and locking the door to make sure that he wouldn't be disturbed. "So it's up to us, then."

"It's up to you."

Jeff sighed again, realising that it wasn't the Lynfields that were worrying him. "I can't believe I'm worried about something like this right now. Gordon's getting cut up in the OR, and I'm busy trying to hire people as agents!"

John's face fell for a moment. "Dad, it's not your fault." He grimaced and looked absently off the screen. "What the hell do you think I'm doing? I'm up here giving orders while you're all at least down there with him. If anyone is being stupid and cold-hearted right now, it's me."

John had a point, Jeff realised, and he felt vaguely ill about bringing the issue up in the first place. He hadn't stopped to consider that John himself was stuck up on the space station, unable to do anything but stay calm and keep everyone else on track. "Sorry, John."

"It's not your fault," the blond repeated emphatically after some time, still looking at a point off the screen. "Dad, everyone's worried sick about Gordon. It's not surprising that, with all the stress and stuff, you can't think about it all of the time. The distraction may not seem like a good thing, but there's nothing good to be gained from sitting around for hours and worrying yourself to death. And I think a lot of it is human nature. You're just trying to do something normal to try and make your life go back to normal." He smiled grimly. "It's kind of like overworking to make yourself feel better. You understand it, Dad. It's what you've always done. It's what half the population does in circumstances like this."

And that was exactly right. Shaking his head at his son's wisdom, Jeff was thankful that John still had his head on straight when everyone else was running wild. "You're right, John. Thanks." He had been saying that a lot lately. But then, John had become more than just his quiet child sitting off in a corner with a book. He was growing into a man that wasn't afraid to share his opinions – a man that he had shown signs of becoming nine years ago when he had first told his father off for acting stupid. "That's twice I've done that, and twice you've made your point."

"You're welcome." The astronomer sighed. "But I'm not getting on your case about it this time. Sitting around stewing will only make things worse, and someone down there needs to keep a clear head. So talk to those people, see if they'd sell us out. Virgil's at least two hours out yet with the plane, so you have plenty of time. If things look good, bring them on board with us."

"Right." Jeff couldn't help smiling at how John had somehow ended up giving him directions. He was, after all, the leader of International Rescue, and was generally the one who developed the plans of action. Scott had a hand in it too, more often than not, but it was entertaining almost to see John fall into the part of the leader. Entertaining yes, and yet not really surprising. John, since he had arrived on the station, had slowly transformed into an adult form of the child that he had once been before his mother had died.

"Don't feel the need to stay and talk to me, Dad. Go and keep Scott company."

"You sure?"

John nodded. "Positive. I can't seem to find out anything more about the accident, so I can't tell you anything until Virgil comes in for landing."

"All right. Thanks again, John."

"Right, Dad. You take care, now. Thunderbird Five out."

The clouds continued to flash by the plane, one layer above, one layer below. The sky was still blue, though it darkened as Tracy One gradually worked its way across the country in the direction of the setting sun.

Alan and Fermat had fallen asleep in the back, and Virgil found himself unable to sleep in the front. Though the plane was on automatic pilot, it didn't feel right to put all of his trust in the vehicle in the instance that the computer should fail. Instead of drifting off, he gazed absently at the clouds as they passed, lost in thought that may as well have been sleep, for it was as deep and insinuating.

So you crashed a hydrofoil. I can't believe that you did that, Gord. Even if it wasn't your fault – who races boats in the middle of the night? I thought you knew better than that. I kept telling Dad – I kept telling everyone – that you could be serious. I mean, you know when to quit, right? You had a line that you didn't pass. Granted, it was a long way out there, but you never ever would risk hurting someone physically.

But I guess this isn't about your jokes, huh? You wouldn't do something stupid like this for kicks. What'd they say, Gord? What'd they do that made you so mad?

Damn, I am so angry at you! Why'd you have to do it? I thought that you'd be able to rationalise. You know, look at the situation and say, hey, maybe this isn't worth it?

But you hate to do that. You can never let it die. Let's not leave it alone, huh? Let's go and fight or get out there and do something! You and your pride! You and your sense of righteousness and chivalry and everything else like that. It doesn't matter what it is, you have to fight for it.

Look what it's got you into now. You're stuck fighting for your life. And didn't the race tomorrow matter any? What about that?

Stupid. You little jerk. You'd better be all right. You'd better be awake when I get there. Then I can tell you exactly what you did wrong.

Hang on, Gord. I want to talk about this. I want to know what happened. I want –

I want you to be okay. Don't let me down. You're so stubborn, you can get through this. Right? Right, Gordon?

Shaking himself from his thoughts, Virgil reached up a hand and silently and methodically wiped the tears that had finally leaked from his eyes. It was funny, how he had never really considered just how much Gordon's companionship had meant to him until it was gone. He had taken it for granted, really, always assuming that Gordon would just . . . be there, no matter what.

What he would give just to have a bucket of lard dumped on his head, with the redhead's irritating laugh ringing happily in the background. But that wouldn't happen, not with Gordon in the state that he was in. It might never happen again. Ever.

I'll be there soon, Gordon. I promise. Hang in there.

"So, Harry, you do realise that if you were to come anywhere near the Thunderbirds, you'd have to swear to a pact of secrecy?"

Jeff had only been back in the waiting room for ten minutes at the most, but already he was working to try and piece together in his mind a picture of how trustworthy the Lynfields would truly be. There were many people in the world that were compassionate people, until someone waved a stack of bills in their face and caused them to spill their secrets.

"Of course!" Harry nodded in agreement. "It makes sense. Jeff, I wouldn't want to see those ships in the hands of anyone, especially this government. Or any government. Ships like that are a waste when used for war. They're beauts, all of them, and they should be in the hands of pilots who know how to fly 'em. Coming from a pilot, that's my opinion."

"So . . ." Jeff trailed off, trying to settle on a way to vocalise what he was thinking. "If you had a chance to gain their trust, how would you prove that you were trustworthy?" He prodded Scott, who had started to snort quietly, in the ribs to shush him up.

Pinching his lips, Harry took a deep breath. "Well, that's a hard question. I guess, at least in their eyes, nothing'd be stopping me from taking their secrets and running to the nearest guy that's waving a bag of loot. I'm sure their stuff would catch the eye of a lot of different organisations, including the American military." The man's brow furrowed in disgust. "I guess I don't really have any way to prove my trust, except to give them my word. I wouldn't want to see their stuff used for bad purposes. Hell, it's my job to keep people safe every day while they fly. With ships like that in the wrong hands, who knows what could happen to me and my passengers! I just wouldn't want to see that happen."

A smile slowly worked its way onto Jeff's face. He turned to Scott, and the two of them nodded in unison. "How about you, Amy?"

"Same way," she responded firmly. "They're good people, and there're too few of those in the world today. No amount of money is worth that."

"Even millions?"

A ghost of emotion crossed the couple's faces, then faded as rapidly as it had appeared. "Millions would be nice," Harry finally sighed, "but I have my principles. And I stick to them. Now, I might sell out the American government to International Rescue if it would help them, but you didn't hear me say that."

That settled it. "Scott, scan the room."

"Right." Reaching into his pocket, the young man withdrew a small palm pilot like device and waved it around the room.

Suddenly intrigued, Harry leaned forward in his chair and gave Scott a confused look. "What the heck is that thing? You're not supposed to have electronics in here!" He turned to look at his wife, then back to Scott. "You're not with the government, are you? Because if you are, I've already told you, I don't know anything about them! And I don't know anything about you, either, for that matter. I couldn't sell you out if I wanted to!"

"Calm down," Scott muttered, his eyes focused on the device. "We're not with the government, and this thing is perfectly safe. It runs on a tight beam that won't interfere with hospital equipment. That'd defeat the purpose of using it on the emergency field if it didn't."

"We're exactly who we said we were," Jeff added, leaning over to see the screen of the electromagnetic scanner. "Anything?"

"No." Replacing the device in his pocket, Scott gave a long sigh of relief. "Room's clear. I didn't think it would be bugged, but it never hurts to check."

"Then what was that?"

"A scanner," Jeff replied calmly, "to make sure that we weren't being spied on. Now," he looked towards the door, "Scott, if you would be so kind as to keep watch, I can tell these good people what is going on."

"Right." Jumping up from his chair, the young man walked over to the door and laid his head against the metal. "Coast is clear."

Nodding, Jeff pulled out his personal organiser again and set it on his lap. "Harry and Amy, what I'm about to tell you must be kept in the strictest of confidence. You must never reveal this information to anyone; not family, not friends, not anyone that you would trust with your life unless we give you the explicit permission to."

The other man sat silently for a moment, his face serious, his eyes directed slightly towards his wife. "I hear you. What's this about?"

How to say it? That was always the part that Jeff found hardest when hiring agents. He had recruited dozens of men and women across the world, yet he always found it hard to explain the situation to them without causing an unneeded air of excitement or – worse – panic.

"Have you ever wondered," he finally began, "where International Rescue gets their funding?"

That comment stopped Harry's wandering eyes dead. They immediately darted back to Jeff's face, growing wider by the second. "Of course, who doesn't? But does that . . ." He stopped talking and took to simply staring at Jeff in shock.

Ready to launch into a more general explanation, Jeff looked to Scott, who nodded, then turned back to the Lynfields. "International Rescue is a top secret organisation that is funded by one man and one man only. A single family operates the main branch, the rescue division, although they employ nearly a hundred agents around the world to keep tabs on things and to serve as intelligence operatives when a situation needs to be scouted out. There is no government intervention. They have no political affiliations, and no economic ties save the ones that allow them to purchase and maintain their craft . . ."

"With Tracy Industries," Harry finished quietly, catching onto what Jeff was hinting at. "Good Lord."

"Would you like to know more?"

Somewhat tentatively, the couple nodded in unison. "Are you allowed to tell us more?"

"Of course."

"Your leader gave you permission?"

"Oh!" A laugh he escaped Jeff's mouth, and he waved his hand in the air apologetically. "In a way, yes. I am the commander-in-chief of the organisation. My family, my sons," he nodded slightly towards Scott, "fly the ships. As do I."

Several long moments passed before either Harry or Amy said anything in response. They simply sat, mulling the revelation over. Finally, the man turned abruptly towards Scott and pointed a long finger directly at him. "You have flown a scram! I knew it."

"It makes sense," Amy added suddenly. "After reading all about your family . . ." She smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry, but whenever the Tracy family does anything it winds up in the gossip columns. But your sons . . ."

"Failures," Jeff laughed lightly, knowing where the woman was going. "All of them. Living at home in their twenties. Scott quit the air force to pilot Thunderbird One. Virgil passed up an engineering scholarship to come work in our lab. John left NASA to help us as well. Gordon . . ." All of the enthusiasm that had built in Jeff's chest flooded out like the breaking of a dam. Leaving the sentence unfinished, he leaned backward slowly in his chair and tried to compose himself.

"Gordon wasn't going to join," he finally continued quietly. "He wanted to apply for WASP as soon as he turned eighteen. He . . ." It was too much. Shaking his head, Jeff looked towards the organiser on his lap and tried to hold in his emotions. He failed. "Made a mistake. And I couldn't do anything to help him."

"We couldn't have helped Gordon," Scott argued from the door. "We all know that, Dad."

"We could have helped the girl. We had the equipment. But we couldn't do anything because Gordon was involved!" A wave of emotions and feelings thundered through the man, and he banged his fist in frustration. "We would have been identified. That would have been it. We couldn't risk the entire organisation to help one girl! And . . ." He sagged in the chair. "It wasn't that. I would have given anything to help him. But I couldn't leave him . . ."

Those words hurt so much to speak. They were the truth, but the truth, as Jeff had discovered after many years of experience, was often not easy. "I don't even know if Gordon will be all right," he whispered to no one in particular. "That's the worst part. I was able to do nothing to help him. I stood there, completely helpless, because of a choice that he had made himself."

Jeff couldn't blame himself. What could he have done differently? Nothing. But he had trusted his son to make the right choice, and that had quite obviously been a mistake. A forgivable mistake, perhaps, one that parents were forced to make as their children grew up, but a mistake none the less. What would have happened had he made Gordon stay at the hotel, or if he had sent Scott with him to watch him?

He had given a seventeen-year-old boy his trust in the hopes that he was mature enough to make the right choices. After all, with so much on the line the coming morning, he had assumed that Gordon wouldn't be foolish enough to do anything that would jeopardise his participation in the race.

But it didn't matter. He should have known, he should have anticipated the problem. How, Jeff didn't know, for he didn't even know for sure what had caused the incident. But Gordon had a history of causing trouble . . . he had a history of getting in over his head. No matter how old he grew, that never seemed to change.

He should have known. They both should have.

"Dad."

Jeff looked up to find Scott standing in front of him, his hand placed firmly on his father's shoulder in a show of support. The young man's expression was grave and harsh, and when he spoke it was with no apology.

"Dad, don't blame yourself for this. An accident happened, Gordon made a mistake as far as we can tell, and that is that."

"But what if it wasn't a mistake? What if it really was an accident . . ."

"Then accidents happen," Scott insisted. "We know that. We don't have to like that fact, but it is a fact, Dad. But you need to pull through this. We all do. Do you think Gordon would like it if we were all upset because of him? No! He'd be angry with us. He'd yell, Dad. Think about it."

He did think about it, then, and he saw the truth in Scott's words. Gordon could be loud, he could be arrogant, but in one very distinct way he had matured greatly – he was very rarely selfish on purpose. And Jeff, thinking of what his son's reaction would be could he see his father now, knew that Gordon would be angry with himself for having put his family in such a situation. It would probably appear that he was angry with his family . . . but Jeff knew that that would never be the case.

"Now," Scott concluded quietly, "let's finish up with these people and stop making them feel uncomfortable." He gave his father's shoulder a tight squeeze. "We can get through this. We always have."

Sighing, Jeff replied, "You're right. Sometimes I don't know what I'd do without you boys here."

He did know, of course. He would have fallen into the same state of mind that he'd fallen into years ago when Lucy had died. The feeling of being lost, the confusion – it didn't matter whether he was calm or crying on his knees. The inability to pick his own course in such a situation was what seemed to damn him. Thankfully, there were those people, his sons, who were bright enough to see their father's mistakes when even he couldn't.

Looking back towards the Lynfields, who were watching the exchange with a certain degree of uncertainly, Jeff smiled apologetically and offered, "Every man should have a son like this."

And before the Lynfields could respond, Jeff's organiser began to emit a quiet beeping noise that signalled a transmission from Thunderbird Five. Shaking his head in amusement, Jeff mouthed, "One moment," then quickly activated the transmitter in the device. A second passed, then John's face appeared in the monitor screen. His expression was grave, and Jeff wondered what his son had uncovered that had caused him to appear so unsettled.

"I did a little research," the space monitor began slowly, the tone of his voice suggesting apprehension at sharing the information. "I think I know what happened."

The revelation was not unexpected in itself, but the speed with which it had been delivered startled Jeff. "There's hardly been time for an investigation. How did you . . ."

"Several ways." John shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Several . . . not very legal ways . . ."

"None of what you do is legal," Jeff sighed, growing impatient with his son's avoidance of the truth. "Now what did you do?"

"I think we should go get something to drink," interrupted Harry suddenly, standing up from his chair. "Amy, don't you think so?"

Knowing what the man was up to, Jeff shot him a thankful look, then turned back to his organiser as the couple left the room. "All right, John, they're gone. Now I want the truth. Now, not later."

"I broke into the recreation center's surveillance system," the blond blurted out, his face turning red with embarrassment. "They were running a digital network linked to a mainframe surveillance company based in Central USA. The data transfer was done via an incredibly secure internet path, which was how I was able to break in. No internet path is completely secure."

"I'm impressed that you thought of that!"

The comment only served to heighten the young man's blush. "I've . . . had to do something like it on several occasions. Not for anything bad," he added quickly, though Jeff didn't suspect John of doing anything truly wrong with the data access that he had. "I was a little messy this time. I don't think I was caught, though, since they haven't sent out any online searches yet for my digital address."

"All right. So what did you find?"

The transformation that went over John's face was extraordinary. It was if he were fighting a war within himself: one side tried to maintain a face of control, the other wanted desperately to convey some feeling that was hidden inside of him. Eventually the emotional side won out, and John closed his eyes and slammed his fists hard against his computer console. His face was livid with raw frustration.

"The little bugger, it was his fault. And I don't blame him."

Somewhere, in a remote part of the United States, a warning bell went off at a security facility. Someone somewhere had tapped into a line, though the offender had already fled without leaving any tracks. Any noticeable tracks, at least. But to those who were watching closely, the digital exhaust trails had not yet faded.

Somewhere, in the far reaches of the world, a group of hackers saw the alert and began to tap into the data source. Using equipment far superior to that of the security sector, they saw the trail left and began to follow. It took so very little time to pinpoint the breach, and the origin of the breach, that their actions went undetected at the other end.

Somewhere, in the sprawling jungles of Malaysia, one man smiled when a set of co-ordinates came up onto a computer screen. Someone had been sloppy, he thought, when they were normally very careful. Someone had been in a hurry, and had let their secret slip.

The game was on. Someone in the future was going to suffer for their mistake.

The tall figure of Scott Tracy was waiting at the front doors of the hospital when Virgil, Alan, and Fermat arrived. He leaned heavily against the wall of the entrance room, watching out from behind the glass as his brothers made their way up the pavement and towards the building. Virgil finally caught sight of Scott several feet from the door and quickly ran the rest of the way. Throwing the door open, he stumbled into the entrance room and gasped, "Is he all right?"

Catching Virgil so that he wouldn't fall, Scott shook his head. "I don't know. He's still in surgery right now." He glanced over briefly as Alan and Fermat finally entered as well. "The nurse said that it could take another hour at least."

"Is he out yet?" Alan asked, having not heard his brother's question. "Scott?"

"No." Sure that Virgil was stable on his feet, Scott began to walk down the hallway towards the elevators. The group passed by several receptionist desks before anyone spoke again.

"If you don't m-m-m-mind me asking," Fermat stuttered from behind, "what were his injuries?"

At first reaction, Scott found himself irritated by the question. It was, after all, pretty frankly spoken given the circumstances. But the more that he thought about it, the more he realised that it was a valid one, and one that would eventually need to be answered.

Every spoken word hurt Scott as much as the injuries likely had Gordon. "Second and third degree burns on his right side, which was the direction of impact on the water. Five broken ribs, cracked skull, and various fractures all over his body. I can't even remember them all." Having reached the elevator, Scott hit the up arrow and waited for the cart to appear.

"He should be all right, then, if the head injury isn't too bad," Virgil muttered absently. "Was there any internal damage?"

"A little, I think, from the crash harness. Nothing that can't be fixed, though." Taking a deep breath, Scott prepared himself for the revelation that hurt the most. "Apparently when the craft hit the water, the force of the impact jerked the seats. The guy that Gord was riding with snapped his neck. Died instantly."

He heard Virgil suck in his breath at the words.

"The thing is," Scott continued, as the elevator opened and the boys stepped in, "the doctors don't know how bad it hurt Gord. The concussion is pretty bad, so even if he wakes up . . ." He trailed off. It took several deep breaths before he was able to continue. "There could be all sorts of spinal and nerve damage. The nurse didn't want to say too much – Dad was already at the point of hysteria – but she sort of hinted that there was damage to nerves in the neck."

He didn't have to explain what that meant. All of the boys were familiar with the hazards of travelling in a vehicle, and had been educated thoroughly at school about wearing seatbelts and the horrors of being paralysed after an accident.

"So, he's . . ." The words escaped Virgil's mouth as little more than whispered phantoms. The briefest hint of anger flashed onto his face, and he slammed the close button of the elevator with his hand. "Damn. Damn it!"

Looking to the two younger boys, Scott saw that they were staring silently at the ground. For Fermat the situation was obviously awkward, given that he was not a direct part of the family. For Alan, however, it had to be horrible, and the boy's silence did nothing to reassure Scott. He could handle his father's confusion, could deal with John's faked apathy, could understand Virgil's anger at his brother's poor decision . . .

But he had no idea what Alan was thinking. The blond simply stood in one place, his hands at his sides, his eyes staring off blankly into space. There was no emotion there, only an empty and disconcerting look. It really made Scott wonder. Gordon was their brother after all; how could Alan act as though nothing had happened? Sure, John was the same way, but that was his own way of dealing with stress. There was no doubt that he was upset.

"Alan, if you want to talk about it . . ."

"No." The response was abrupt. "I don't want to."

The faintest trace of fear was present in the boy's voice, and though Scott did not like to see his brothers upset, it made him feel a bit better to see that Alan did indeed feel some emotion about the entire episode. He had been worried that Alan's relationship with his brother would somehow affect his ability to worry, but that apparently was not the case. A fresh wave of guilt hit Scott when he looked at Alan, and realised that the boy was anything but apathetic.

The behaviour of his family was worrying, but it was to be expected. Even Scott himself was worried sick to the point of being ill, and there was no way to escape that even if he wanted to. Some moments in life were simply cruel and difficult, and nothing could be gained from them in the way of comfort. For a family who had already lost one member, the precarious position that Gordon was in was hauntingly familiar.

The elevator chimed once, causing Scott to look up. Floor twelve had arrived quickly, almost too quickly for his liking. It had been a blessing to escape the waiting room for even a few short minutes, and the jaunt outside had cleared his mind immensely. Now, though, the harsh reality of the situation sunk in again. It was as though the rooms of the hallway were pressing in on him, crushing the air from his lungs so that it was hard to breathe.

"The waiting room's just down this way," he explained, pointing at a closed door at the end of the hall. "Dad's probably alone by now. We had some company earlier, but they left to go see their son." He couldn't help the sarcasm that seeped into his tone. "I don't know how long we'll be waiting."

The other three nodded silently and followed their brother down the hall.

Fifty-three minutes. They were, Virgil was quite sure, the longest fifty-three minutes of his life. Though he had initially been relieved to see his father, and had even found some support in the man's strong presence – for even when the older man was upset he still possessed the stamina of a fatherly figure - as the minutes had worn on and conversation had abated, he had found the room to be more and more despicable.

Fifty-three minutes. The plane ride from the island had taken much longer than that. It had been nearly six hours since he had left, and even the rocket engines on the craft had not been enough to take him to Florida in enough time to see his brother. Nothing, short of a miracle or a magical portal, would have been quick enough for that. And now he waited.

Fifty-three minutes. It seemed like a short enough period of time, especially when his mind was occupied with other things. Six hours of flying? That was nothing, even without the distraction of being in full control of the plane. A five-hour school exam? That was a breeze compared to the time that he was being forced to sit in the waiting room.

At that point, all other thoughts had left his mind, and he was left only with the immeasurable desire to see that his brother was all right. Reality, not more anger, had arrived along with him at the hospital. The severity of his brother's injuries was plain. There was no suggestion as to how long he would be on the operating table; no one knew for sure.

No one knew if he would wake up, even.

Burying those thoughts deep inside of him, Virgil continued to stare out at the ceiling, in hopes that some news would arrive before fifty-four minutes passed.

It did.

The nurse entered quietly, flipped a few pages in her clipboard, and then smiled a smile that wasn't really one.

"Mr. Tracy, your son has just been removed from the O.R. and is being transferred into recovery. It will be a few minutes yet until you can see him, but once he's settled in a room you will be allowed in. Doctor Grant informed me that the surgery went well, though we have yet to see what the permanent effects of the accident will be. Pressure on the brain was kept to a minimum, and he is expected to awaken in a few hours when the effects of the anaesthesia wear off. I will come get you when the room is ready."

Nearly a half an hour later, the four members present from the Tracy family and their young companion were herded quietly into a large and spacious room on the top floor of the hospital. The walls, painted a sterile white, reflected from a large degree of cleanliness. The expansive east-facing window showed a lightening sky, and a warm orange sun that peeked over the horizon to bathe the landscape in a deep magenta glow. The clouds were purple in hue, meshing with the pink background to colour the buildings of Tampa Beach red.

Even the room itself glowed red, as the sunlight bounced from wall do wall, reflecting off the polished plaster until every surface, every sheet, ever face that stood there, looked as though it were on fire.

Only the face of the young man on the bed, his legs and torso covered in white linen his upper body in hospital clothes and countless feet of tubing, remained untouched by the glow. Instead, shadowed by a pillow's edge, Gordon's face maintained a pale complexion, removed from the warm rays of the sun. Even the ginger hair was subdued, shaved off to nothing in some spots, stubble in others, and wrapped up in other spots under the gentle white gauze that the doctors had applied.

Silently, unmoving, unable to say whatever was on their minds, the five stood at the foot of the bed and gazed at the passive face of their family member. They waited for the time to arrive when the young man would stir and open his eyes and look into theirs once again. They waited for some sign of life to return to the body that was feeding off so many machines for life.

They waited for Gordon Tracy to return from the land of the dead, and they hoped that the return journey would be as quick and sudden as the trip there. It was all they could do. Sound had no bearing on the situation. Words had no meaning.

Nothing mattered but the keeping of the silent guard at the foot of the bed. As the sun continued to rise and the hue of the room intensified, they did not stir, save to find a seat or a cushion to rest on. Their eyes never left the pale face that had yet to be touched by the life-giving beams from the sky.

And so they remained, until the sun was nearly at a zenith in the sky and Gordon Tracy found the strength to regain consciousness and open his eyes.

TBC in "Restitution"