Hallo! Will probably drop back once again, to weave in some dangling threads, but couldn't resist returning to Scott, John and Virgil. It's been so long... Thank you for reading and reviewing, Bow Echo, Creative Girl, Tikatu, Thunderbird Shadow and Guest!

40

Space, near Mars, over a month later-

Even the Mechanic had gotten a call, or a status-check, rather. The Mother of Cyborgs had sensed his return; was requesting an update. Kane chose to respond, because the tone of her ping was concerned, not imperative, and because… well, maybe he'd grown. Wasn't a weak, candy-ass Tracy, not by a long-shot, but he wasn't what he had been, either.

Also, the brief, intense conversation helped to distract him from that crowded and other-stink airlock. The inner hatch cycled open, once they were all aboard and the compartment was flooded with breathable air, but Kane and Beech went no further within. The Mechanic shook his tattooed and partly-shorn head at Virgil's mimed invitation.

"You may be welcome, here, but I am not," he growled, not reabsorbing his coating, in case the d*mn typicals tried spacing him. "I'll wait. Beech can do as he likes."

The pale-haired chaos adept had hauled off his helmet, but he, too, refused to enter the main vessel.

"Thanks all the same, Tracy, but I have no ID or official status among your kind. Your admiral will see nothing in me, but a criminal stowaway. Besides," he joked lightly, "this is my chance to win back some credits from Kane. His random number generator can't be that good."

The Mechanic snorted what passed for a laugh.

"More than happy to rob you again, Beech. There's nothing better than a willing victim."

Virgil grinned at them both; tired, relieved and glad to be back in a WorldGov spaceship.

"Right. I'll see if Pete's got anything to eat or drink in this bucket," he promised, adding, "In the meantime, there's an outlet right by the hatch. Try not to drain the battery. Back before you know it."

…and he meant what he'd said. You didn't go through what he had with these guys, and then just toss them aside. The Mechanic shrugged negligently, setting his armour to clanking and grinding like a blocked garbage disposal.

"Makes no difference to me," he grunted, turning away.

Scott and John Tracy had gone forward, meanwhile, looking for the cockpit and Admiral McCord. Found him soon enough. Oddly, the Base Commander seemed rather tense.

"Good to see you, Lieutenant," snapped Pete, tearing his gaze from the instrument panel to nod once at John. "Glad you're all still alive, etc. Now, take off."

"Sir?" said the astronaut, somewhat confused.

"Get lost. Me and Scott, here, need to have us a man-to-man chat."

"Um…" beyond the singular fact that McCord outranked him, like the Sun vs. flashbulb, Pete was one of Dad's very best friends, and they'd been brought up to respect and obey him. "Yessir, I'll be…"

"Somewhere the h*ll out of earshot. Want to be useful, go rehydrate something for dinner. Dismissed, Lieutenant."

Wasn't a thing for John to do, then, except salute the visibly seething admiral, and back his way out of that suddenly dangerous cockpit. Shot a last, worried glance at Scott, before having the hatch slam itself shut in his face. Not good. Beyond double-plus trouble.

The Mark IV Starliner wasn't large, but it had kick-ass bulkhead insulation. No eavesdroppage was possible, even had he been tempted. (Which, y'know… he wasn't.) Scott was on his own.

John used a bulkhead brace to get himself turned around, then glided aft, again. Surprised Virgil in the galley, trying to do something about dinner. Not succeeding very well, either, as space-food prep didn't make any sense to him.

"What're you supposed to do with this thing?" he groused, holding up a flattish, gummy-looking package. "And where's Scott? Hijacking the pilot's seat?"

John took the beef stew pouch from his dark-haired and scowling brother.

"You add hot water at the nozzle, like this," he explained patiently, acting things out in slow motion. Seriously, it wasn't that hard. "And, um… getting his ass chewed to shreds, would be my guess."

Virgil winced in sympathy, having been there a few times. Usually with Scott as yeller, and himself as yellee, though.

"So much for that hero crap," he remarked, shaking his head. No longer gelled stiff, Virgil's black hair drifted around with the air currents and into his face, making him look about twelve years old. "Would have been nice to keep a swelled head for at least a few more minutes."

"When hell gets a freeze warning, in this family," John responded, rehydrating another meal pouch. Chili-mac, this time. "Find some peanut butter," he advised. "Your cyborg friend doesn't like complex foods. Expand his horizons. Introduce him to mustard."

"And women," Virgil joked back, grinning wickedly.

They worked in the galley like acrobats, tossing hot, hydrated meal packs back and forth, while bobbing and gliding at varying levels and orientations. You got used to that bottomless freefall, after a while (though Virgil never loved it; not like his tall, red-haired brother did).

Scott rejoined them about fifteen minutes later, looking grim and determined. Didn't volunteer to discuss what had happened, and his two younger brothers wisely refrained from asking. He did say,

"The Mechanic's been pardoned, and we've been made Heroes of Peace and Unity… posthumously."

"They've declared us dead?" blurted Virgil, very wide-eyed.

"Just since the search was called off," Scott told him. "No one expected a comeback except for Pete, our folks and the girls. Meanwhile, the Hood's been arrested, Al's Bird blew up, and we, uh… appear to have mislaid the Chaos Crew."

"Is Alan alright?" John demanded, his sea-green eyes narrowing slightly, one hand at his earpiece. "What about Charlie and Gordon?"

"They're fine," Scott assured him, fielding an airborne cheese and mustard flatbread sandwich they'd intended for Kane. Too hungry for washup, or more than a muttered "thank you", he devoured the thing in two bites. "Got any more?"

Yes, as it happened, and squeeze tubes of warm, sweetened coffee, besides. He might have eaten better at some point, but for the life of him, Scott Tracy couldn't say when. The dressing-down he'd received still stung, mostly because it rang true. Only, their field commander was too professional to pass that lashing along. He'd made some mistakes. Endangered the mission. He'd learn to do better. End of subject.

Together, the three Tracys returned to that crowded airlock, bringing food, drink and extension cords. Alan and Gordon turned up shortly thereafter, flying an all new Thunderbird 3. They had plenty of wild family scuttlebutt to share… but that was another story.