BEAM ME UP, SCOTTY by SPENSE RATED FRPT

This story was written in response to the 2006 Tracy Island Writers Forum's Silly Fic Title challenge.

"What the . . . ?" Scott sputtered, dumbfounded, as he looked out the window of the restaurant he, his brothers and father were having breakfast.

It was unusual to have all six of the Tracys together at one time outside of their island home, but they'd actually managed it. Jeff had a business meeting in England regarding an acquisition, and had wanted Scott and John, in particular, to go with him.

Predictably, Gordon and Alan commented that they were due some shore-leave as well, and Grandma had mentioned that Jeff and the boys never did anything as a family outside of International Rescue.

Upon hearing of the fracas, Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward had suggested that they leave Thunderbird One and Two on the grounds of her estate (safely hidden, of course), have Brains man TB5, and have all of the Tracy sons accompany their father. They could have a family vacation of sorts. The Thunderbirds would be close enough that if a disaster occurred where they were required, they could respond. But the rescue business had been quiet of late, and a little r&r was definitely in order.

So, here they were together, all five sons and their father, at breakfast at the hotel/convention center where Jeff's meeting was scheduled, and where they occupied a cavernous penthouse suite.

The six men had been discussing plans for the morning. Jeff, Scott and John were to be attending the meeting regarding the aerospace company Jeff was interested in adding to the international conglomeration that was Tracy Enterprises. Virgil was planning to do some painting, and Gordon and Alan were going to go look at some classic cars Alan had spotted.

Scott's additional muttered obscenity stopped the conversation cold.

"What?" Gordon said, always interested in something new going on.

"Look!" Scott said, an amazed expression on his face.

As one, the Tracy clan turned and gazed out the window.

There, on the street, walking by big as brass, were three individuals wearing International Rescue uniforms.

Gordon and Alan burst out laughing, while the remainder of the family looked on in shock. The three were as unalike any of the Tracy men as could possibly be. One, wearing Scott's light blue sash, was short, freckled, and was proceeded by a large paunch. Virgil's yellow was sported by a bean thin sandy blond. The third, wearing Jeff's gold sash, was as opposite in appearance to the Tracy patriarch as was humanly possible. Jet black hair, heavy set build, coke bottle thick glasses, and about 5' 7" in height. IR's actual commander would have towered over him were they standing next to each other.

As the trio passed by the window, the actual IR operatives looked at the window in various stages of astonishment.

"Don't worry gents, no, it isn't International Rescue. You won't being seeing any Thunderbirds around here, more's the pity," a pert feminine voice broke in, clearly misunderstanding their interest.

The Tracy contingent all swiveled as one to see their waitress with a coffeepot, smiling at them.

At the sight of Alan opening his mouth, Scott stepped on his foot . . . hard.

Alan winced, snapped his mouth shut and glared at Scott, who looked unrepentant.

"What’s going on?" Jeff asked conversationally as he pushed his cup over for a refill.

"Yeah, it isn't everyday you witness a sight like that," Gordon commented, with predictable double meaning.

"The Thunderbirds Convention is going on in the Varsity Room," the pretty woman replied.

"Thunderbirds Convention?" John replied, amused.

"Uh-huh. It's a big one, too. All the merchandise, stories and role playing games. They even have a couple of speakers, people that International Rescue have saved. The hotel is booked solid. I'm going to head over myself in a little bit." She smiled as she dropped off the check and headed to the next table.

There was dead silence at the Tracy table, a silence pregnant with suppressed glee. Jeff sipped his coffee, looked around at all of the bright faces in front of him and sighed, resigned. This was going to be a constant source of amusement to his sons, he could just see it now. Alan and Gordon looked like they were about ready to bubble over. Virgil and John looked entertained by the whole notion, and Scott looked thoughtful, amusement warring with his normal, customary sense of caution about security.

"Not now. Not until we're up in the room,” Jeff commanded firmly. “Let's go."

"But . . ." Alan started.

"Up in the room, like Dad said!" Virgil growled, cuffing him on the back of the head.

"OW! Knock it off, Virgil!"

"Let's go," Jeff repeated with a sigh.

The ride up the elevator saw the continued silence, as they had company, but it was full of expectation. And, as soon as the door to their suite shut behind them, Alan and Gordon erupted into whoops of laughter.

"So, Scott, now we know what you'll look like when you get older!" Alan snickered.

"Dad, I had no idea that's what you see when you look in the mirror!" Gordon said, howling with laughter.

"You have to admit, it was pretty ludicrous," John said in quiet amusement.

"Dad, what are we going to do?” Scott said, always thinking ahead and plotting damage control. “Some of those people would have seen us on rescues."

“Maybe, but you gotta admit, it is funny,” Gordon supplied.

Scott looked at him, a smile lighting up his features. “Oh, hell yeah!”

Jeff hid a moan. “Language Scott! Language.” This was going to be a long trip.

"A convention?" Virgil was grinning. "I don't believe it. I thought conventions only happened for cheesy science fiction shows."

"Yeah, like Star Trek, huh Dad?" Scott was really grinning now, Virgil's comment having sent his mind in a whole new direction, and he looked at his father meaningfully.

Jeff rubbed his temple in frustration. ‘Why was life always so complicated?’ he wondered. Meeting the twinkling gaze of his eldest son, he knew he was in trouble. The grin on his face was a dead give away, and he'd better come clean before Scott gave it away completely.

"Star Trek?" Alan said in disbelief. "That show is ancient!"

"Yeah," Virgil chimed in, "they finally gave up making the sequels and spin-offs 15 years ago. I mean, how many different sequels can they do? And I think they quit making the movies at about Star Trek 21."

"Not to mention that the science was pretty bad as well," Gordon commented.

"How would you know?” John queried. “I don't think you ever watched it. Or you either, for that matter, Alan."

"Well, why bother!" Alan snickered.

"Come on Dad, you can tell us all about the Star Trek conventions, right?" Scott said, smirking.

The others were beginning to catch on now, and looking from Scott to their father with interest.

"What's this all about Dad?" John inquired.

Jeff smiled ruefully. "Okay, okay." He looked at his oldest son meaningfully. "Scott, you'll be washing to mole for the next six months for just bringing this up," he said in mock irritation.

"Huh?" Virgil was really curious now.

"When I was about Alan's age, I had a roommate in college who was really into Star Trek. And I don't mean the stuff you boys grew up watching, I mean the original, 1960's TV show."

He had their rapt attention now.

"He used to attend every convention possible, and always in costume. He'd go as a Klingon. He even spoke the language." Jeff paused, hoping that would satisfy Scott. Predictably, it didn't. Scott just tipped his head, making him spill it all.

"Scott saw a picture once. Before I managed to get them all out of Mother's album," Jeff growled at his unrepentant eldest, who just smirked.

"I attended a conference with my roommate, and he made me dress up like one of the characters."

"Which one?" John asked carefully, trying unsuccessfully to hide a grin.

Jeff looked at his sons, knowing he was stuck. They were all staring at him in various stages of anticipation, except for Scott, who just grinned knowingly.

"Spock," Jeff admitted in resignation.

Virgil and John howled with laughter.

Jeff grinned as he watched the predictable reactions of his sons. The whoops of laughter from Virgil and John were unsurprising. The older boys were familiar with the character. The younger Tracys, who thought the whole Star Trek thing was completely ridiculous, looked blank, until Scott filled them in.

"The Vulcan." That didn't help. "The one with the pointy ears."

"You mean you went as an elf?" Alan asked, a puzzled and bemused expression crossing his face.

"A Vulcan, you moron!" Virgil grinned.

"Vulcan. Elf." Alan shrugged, grinning. "Same difference."

"Well, if it looks like an elf, talks like an elf . . ." Gordon commented.

John just rolled his eyes as Virgil growled.

Finally, even Jeff was laughing at the barbs that came his way. "Okay, okay. Lay off. Now you know my secret."

"What happened to the picture, Dad?" John asked.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Jeff retorted.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” Virgil glared at Scott.

“Yeah Scott. I can’t believe you kept that quiet all this time,” John said, accusingly.

Scott shrugged, undaunted by the twin reproachful stares of his brothers.

“Dad bribed me.”

“And when that stopped working, I threatened him,” Jeff said, laughing..

“It worked!” Scott grinned.

“Even better than bribery,” Jeff teased.

“So now I know why you always got out of the really awful jobs!” Gordon said, eyebrow raised.

"So, do you think the Thunderbird's conference is going to be like some of the Star Trek conventions used to be?" Virgil asked, grinning.

"No clue," Jeff shrugged.

"What were they like?" Alan asked curiously.

"Well, lots of merchandise, pictures, interviews with the original TV stars, that kind of thing. Some people dressed up. It was pretty fun really," Jeff commented.

"Then you add the people who were REALLY into it," Scott smirked.

"Well, there is that," Jeff commented. "Some people seemed to actually live their characters. Then you wondered about their sanity."

"I wonder what the International Rescue conference is like," Alan said thoughtfully. "It isn't like they could have interviews with us!"

"Only one way to find out," Gordon said brightly.

"Yeah, let's skip the cars and go see what they have to offer!" Alan agreed.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! What did I say about people recognizing us!" Scott protested.

"No problem with me. I'll just tell them they know my face from swimming," Gordon said smugly.

"And me from racing," Alan added.

"They have a point," Virgil pointed out. "Once they are recognized for those sports, the people who protest will just be seen as reading something into a face."

"Okay," Jeff said, finally taking control, "Gordon, Alan, fine. Go ahead and go. Keep a low profile, though. Remember nobody is supposed to know who the people are who run IR, and we don't need you two laughing your fool heads off and giving the whole thing away."

Then he looked at his older sons, and noting the well concealed longing there as well, he acquiesced.

"The rest of us will go on our breaks in the meetings. Virgil and Scott, the two of you will be the most recognizable. Don't go together, and wear sunglasses, or reading glasses, or a hat, or something! All right?"

A chorus of voices answered enthusiastically in the affirmative, and didn't do a thing to quell Jeff's prickle of nervousness.

Gordon and Alan had a wonderful time. They explored the booths, and bought loads of merchandise, all of it so far from the actual reality that they were hard pressed to keep from howling with laughter.

The people watching was even better. The costumes were attempts to get the IR uniforms right, but most were a far cry from correct. And the people came in all shapes and sizes. Needless to say, the majority of them didn't live the fit and active lifestyle of the Tracy boys and didn't cut nearly as dashing a figure as the real thing.

They also attended the science symposium, where the theoretical means of fueling and building a Thunderbird was discussed. It was all they could do to keep from rolling on the floor, laughing.

Finally, heads together, they left with their haul.

Virgil and John entered at about the same time the younger Tracy's left. Watching in dismay as two younger men crossed the lobby with their arms full of bags, obviously plotting, John turned to Virgil.

"Should we follow them?"

"No," Virgil sighed regretfully. "We'll know soon enough."

"You know they aren't going to let this die anytime soon."

"No kidding. Well, let's see how bad it is."

They weren't disappointed.

Wandering through the booths, John's lips were twitching with repressed laughter. The vendors were full of models of the Thunderbirds, each one stating that theirs was the most accurate. Of course, none were even close.

A fistfight very nearly broke out between two people manning a couple of booths over the accuracy of their respective Thunderbird One models.

"Seems apropos, doesn't it? They're dressed up as Alan and Gordon!" Virgil whispered, nearly sending John into an apoplexy.

The two stopped talking after awhile, listening to the banter around them and trying hard not to draw any attention to themselves. Virgil's hat was pulled low over his eyes, and the slouch he effected made even John look twice for him the few times they got split up.

They were hard pressed not to laugh as they listened to the conversations around them. They heard arguments about which rescues were the most spectacular (or outlandish). A couple of times they ended up looking at each other with wide eyes.

"I don't remember that," John muttered after one such incident.

"No, the guy's right. That's how it happened. But I'd forgotten!" Virgil mouthed back.

"Well why would you want to remember rescuing a dog out of a tree?"

"Because the way she was going on about it, I though Sophie was a kid!" Virgil hissed back.

John snickered, and they moved on.

The variations on uniforms, sashes and equipment were endless and often ingenious.

Virgil picked up a combination flashlight and homing beacon and looked it over. "Inventive," he murmured.

"I sell them directly to International Rescue," the vendor stated importantly.

"Do you now," John smiled.

"Oh yes. But I'm sworn to secrecy. Don't ask me anything more," he said firmly. "But you can have one of these for a very reasonable price, and you'll have the exact same thing that I equip International Rescue with," he pushed.

"Right," John snorted.

"Oh, come on John, go ahead. Don't you want exactly what International Rescue has?" Virgil said brightly.

John wanted to hit him. "Well, it would make a great present for you for Christmas," he grumbled, giving in and buying an official flashlight slash homing beacon, to Virgil's endless amusement.

Scott and Jeff wandered through later, during a break in the meeting, listening and looking at the merchandise.

Jeff shook his head. "This is worse than the Star Trek conventions ever were. These people don't have a clue."

Scott looked around from under his baseball cap. "They sure don't. Look at that." He pointed to a symposium that was just getting underway entitled 'How IR got it's start - one person's conjecture, followed by a debate featuring a panel of distinguished experts'. "Oh geez, look at the main speaker!"

Jeff had the audacity to laugh. "Ned Cook! And Rick O'Shea is on the panel. Want to go?"

Scott gave him a dirty look. "I don't think so. I can't stomach either one of those idiots!" he muttered.

“I hope Alan doesn’t see Rick,” Jeff commented thoughtfully as they moved on.

“No kidding. He might just give him another black eye,” Scott laughed. “That would be amusing.”

" . . . And the fabric is fire-proof, dirt-resistant and can adjust to the outside temperature in order to keep the wearer cool in hot weather, and warm in cold weather," a stout man was expousing. He was clearly discussing the vivid blue spandex type uniform he was wearing, completed by his vibrant yellow sash. "The textile is a new invention. I've been trying to match what the IR operatives clearly have."

The group he was talking to were listening carefully, and asking technical questions about the fabric, clearly learned in chemistry and science.

"Of course what IR has may be the next generation," a man replied, "as they are technically superior. I'm certain their uniforms are nearly indestructible. They'd have to be."

"Yes, I agree," another said pompously.

"No!" The first man objected. "This is state of the art. I believe it is an exact replica."

"Well, one only has to look at the technology . . ."

The conversation faded out as they moved on. Scott raised an eyebrow at his father.

Jeff smiled. "I'm sure mother would love to get some of that fabric. If only to be able to stop repairing, washing and making new uniforms!"

"I wouldn't be caught dead in that shade of blue, or spandex!" Scott muttered.

Jeff snorted as they moved on. "How's the disguise?"

"Uncomfortable," Scott admitted, as he readjusted the reading glasses.

"Unfortunate, but necessary, I'm afraid. You're the most recognizable face."

"I'll just tell them I'm Scott Tracy," Scott grinned. "Tracy Enterprises is always in the news."

Jeff was amused. "I don't think it would work with this group. They're too ready to believe anything even remotely plausible."

Gazing around at the room full of people, dressed in all manner of IR related clothing, carrying armloads of outlandish merchandise and conversing about anything from rescues performed to possible science explanations, Scott had to agree. "No kidding."

A conversation caught their attention.

"The first rescue was the FireFlash," a man was saying.

"But are we sure? There may have been others before, but of lesser media worth, and therefore not covered," another answered him.

"He's right. The timeline may be different, we don't know," a third chimed in.

"Do you really think something like Thunderbird One much less Thunderbird Two could be missed? No, the incident with the FireFlash was the first."

"But what about testing? To bring machines like that online would require significant testing."

"Well, that's why I've been researching UFO sightings prior to the FireFlash. I'm hoping that will tell us where they are based. So far, it's looking like the Yukon area of Canada is the best bet. Geographically, it's perfect . . ."

The conversation faded behind them. Jeff and Scott looked at each other briefly before chuckling softly.

"I don't know about you, but I'm not that fond of the cold," Scott whispered, grinning. “I like our island!”

"Me too," he said, clamping a hand on his son's shoulder. "Come on, we need to get back to the meeting."

As their business meetings ended, Jeff, Scott, along with Virgil and John who had joined for the latter session, headed wearily towards the elevators. They intermingled with International Rescue conference goers in the lobby as they made their way across the expansive room. It was with relief that they finally made their way into the elevator - alone at last.

As the doors closed, there was a moment of silence, then all four burst into laughter. This was the first time they’d been alone and able to discuss the IR conference.

"Well, it was entertaining," John admitted.

"I'll say," Scott said. "And I thought Brains had an amazing imagination."

"He's got nothing on these people," Virgil agreed.

"I'm just glad that we don't have to see that very often," was Jeff's comment.

The four wearily entered their suite. Negotiations had been long and hard and they were ready for some downtime. But nothing could have prepared them for what they found when they entered the Penthouse Suite.

"What in the world . . . " Virgil began, then stopped, open-mouthed.

"Surprise!" Alan called as he and Gordon began to squirt them with what appeared to be miniature orange and yellow hot dogs.

Honed with years of practice, Virgil and Scott didn’t even duck, but quickly disarmed the pair and looked closer at the squirt guns.

"Are these supposed to be . . . " Virgil began.

"Uh-huh. Thunderbird Four," Gordon said brightly.

"It looks like a yellow sausage," Scott observed. “Oops! No more squirt gun!" he said as he dropped it and stepped on it. Gordon and squirt guns were an ongoing menace, and the best way to disarm him of his element of choice was to destroy his weapons. Scott had lost count of how many squirt guns he’d annihilated over the years.

The expected outcry didn't materialize as Gordon just smirked, and said, "There are a lot more where that came from. I bought a whole case!"

"Oh, lord," Virgil groaned. He knew there would be no stopping Gordon now. These things were going to turn up everywhere, no matter how many of them they destroyed. "Oh well, one less." He dropped his and stepped on it as well.

As he finished, Virgil realized that the remainder of the elder Tracys were silent, and looking somewhat pole-axed. "What . . ." then he too broke off, looking stunned.

"We thought you'd need a little fun tonight," Gordon grinned.

"After all, you had to spend all day in boring meetings," Alan added.

None of the others even knew how to respond. They were too busy taking in the changed appearance of their suite. The main sitting room was covered with IR memorabilia. Cut-out garlands of Thunderbird One and Thunderbird Two (or reasonably facsimiles thereof) festooned the ceiling. Models of every shape and size were everywhere, as well as buttons and bumper stickers stating 'Never give up at any cost' or 'I was rescued by IR', or 'My other vehicle is a Thunderbird'.

"And these are for you!" Gordon grinned as he grabbed a stack of tee-shirts on the table next to him, and began to hand them out to his siblings. Alan, grinning, followed suit with hats.

The tee-shirts and hats all stated the date and place of the conference. The tee-shirts then had lettering that said 'Official pilot of Thunderbird One', which was given to Scott, Two for Virgil and so on. Jeff's said 'IR Head Honcho'.

The hats all added the phrase 'never give up at any cost'.

After staring open mouthed for a moment, the four burst out laughing.

"Oh, and Scott, this is especially for you," Gordon said with a flourish as he presented Scott with an action figure with dark hair and a light blue sash, completed with an completely unrecognizable Mobile Control.

"Well, they got the hair right," the real life model commented doubtfully.

"Since when do you have brown eyes?" Virgil asked, looking closer at the figure, then carefully at Scott.

“And shoulders like a gorilla?” Gordon added. “I think they got the proportions wrong. It has the measurements of an ape.”

"I particularly like the jaw. They've got it jutting out so far that it looks dislocated. Are women supposed to find that sexy?" Alan asked.

"The five-o’clock shadow is an interesting touch," John commented uncertainly as he looked at the dark shading on the face.

"At least they got the washboard abs right,” Virgil commented, to the general merriment of his younger brothers.

They all studied the small figure a little bit closer.

"Well, he looks like a tough guy," John finally said at last.

Jeff shook his head in amusement. "Scott, if you ever show up looking that disreputable, you'll be grounded from One for a year."

"Yes!" Alan exclaimed brightly. "Then I get to fly her!"

"Over my dead body," Scott growled, scowling at Alan but trying unsuccessfully to hide a smile of amusement. He just couldn't help it - the whole thing was so outlandish.

"I can contribute," John offered, handing over his flashlight/homing beacon.

"Oh, cool! You got an 'official' IR piece of equipment," Gordon smirked.

"That was the most amazing thing I've been to in a long time," Alan said happily. "Did you know that our sashes have actual communication devices woven right in?" He snickered. "I even bought one so Brains could see what we really should be wearing. Maybe I'll wear it on the next rescue! They had it in my color, too."

"That's nothing to the guy wearing indestructible strength spandex," Scott said dryly.

"Oh, he didn't know anything," Gordon said knowingly, eyes twinkling. "The booth selling the rip-proof, breathable nylon was the one who had the real inside scoop!"

"Okay, enough. Let's get some room-service. I need dinner," Jeff said, chuckling.

"Great, then we can show you the rest of the stuff. Brains will be glad we got all of it!"

Later, after an excellent meal, and a lot of laughter as they recalled the conference, the Tracy clan gathered together for a drink. Jeff was well satisfied as he turned the conversation back to actual business.

"Well, it's ours."

"The aerospace company?" Gordon asked.

"Yes."

"Oh, great. I'd almost forgotten about that," Alan commented.

"Figures," Virgil muttered.

At Alan's narrowing eyes, John waded in quickly in order to defuse an impending argument and held his glass up. "To the ever growing Tracy Enterprises."

There was a clinking of glasses and a moment of silence as everybody drank.

"And to International Rescue, long may the improbable myths prevail," Virgil added.

"Amen!" Scott said fervently. "The longer people focus on the impossible scenarios, the farther away from us they'll remain."

"Although, I have to say, if I hear somebody say, 'Never give up!' one more time, I'm going to puke," John muttered.

Jeff gave a snort of amusement. He had to agree.

"Or how about 'No pictures please!'" Alan chimed in with his best Scott imitation.

Gordon snickered. "Or even worse was listening to those people in costume saying to each other 'No payment please. Saving lives is payment enough' in those sanctimonious tones! Do we really sound that mealy-mouthed?" He asked rhetorically.

"Well," Jeff said. "Every organization has their slogans. Even those Star Trek conventions I attended had a few," he said, smiling slowly.

Scott, ever suspicious of his quick-witted father, did his best to steer the conversation. "Yeah, 'where no man has gone before'."

"Well, yes, there was that one of course, and it was on the door of every women’s restroom," Jeff smiled, to the accompanying appreciative snickers. "But that wasn't the particular slogan I was thinking of, actually."

Scott, horror dawning on his face, could see he wasn't going to get out of this. "You wouldn't."

"Well, you did mention that I'd gone to a convention as Spock," Jeff pointed out.

“Oh yeah,” Gordon mumbled, “The elf.”

"Yeah, but . . ." Scott sputtered, color draining from his face.

By this time, Gordon and Alan were looking from Scott to Jeff as though they were in a tennis match, while John and Virgil were catching on, and beginning to grin knowingly.

"What, Dad?" Alan prodded.

Gordon nodded enthusiastically. Anything that had Scott this worked up was bound to be useful in the future.

"Well, there was a catch phrase that everybody used. The chief engineer was named Scott, and they always called him by name when they wanted him to activate the transporter."

"Transporter?" Alan asked, puzzled.

"A beam that de- materialized the person and re-materialized them at a different place," Virgil explained, grinning at Scott as his older brother mouthed 'you aren’t helping!'.

"Neat! Maybe we could get Brains to develop one. That could really come in handy," Alan replied.

Gordon was practically salivating. "Yeah, so?" he said, getting the conversation back on track, to Scott's obvious dismay.

"So," Jeff drew it out with a grin, "the phrase everybody always used when they wanted the teleporter activated by the chief engineer was 'Beam me up, Scotty!"

As his brothers all burst into laughter, Scott just rubbed his temples. His life was going to be a living hell for the next several weeks. He just knew it. He looked at his father grimly.

Jeff grinned back, clearly amused.

"You need to take care when sparring with the old man, Scott! He's still got what it takes," Virgil crowed.

“Age before beauty?” John suggested.

“Or strong chins,” Alan smirked.

“Don’t forget those washboard abs,” Virgil added.

Yep, no doubt about it, Scott decided, looking at the grinning elder Tracys to the two absolutely hysterical younger men, his life was going to be a complete hell . . .