Elliot
"Hale…? Hale, can you hear me?"
My breath mists the inside of my helmet, the sound of it harsh and irregular. I try to steady it and steady myself too, to still the kaleidoscope tumble of the stars around me. Both efforts are futile.
Of course, everything's feeling kinda futile right now.
"Elliot calling observatory… calling Space Observatory Three…"
My arms flail in the vacuum, the instinctive effort to tap my com-unit scuppered by the bulky space-suit. Even if I could persuade the stiff fabric to yield, my radio's working just dandy. I can hear the crackle of the Universe in my earphones. A familiar hiss surrounds me… that last rumble of the Big Bang the only thing in range of my feeble receiver.
How many times have I sat watch in the observatory, listening to the Universe fade away? Is Hale kicking his heels up now, safe behind ten-inch thick walls, listening as my voice blends with the static?
"One, two, three, four, five." I draw in another strained breath, and my feed already tastes like the stale, scorched air of Death Valley. "Hello? Hello?!"
The bitterness in my voice takes me aback, and – just for a moment – I freeze. Gazing into the darkness, only the glint of distant stars tells me my eyes are open at all.
It's funny. I've never been someone who looks on the dark side. I'm a pretty matter-of-fact fella – not really the kind to look at the world sideways or see conspiracy in coincidence. Why be a pessimist, or even an optimist, when the world goes rolling on whether or not you believe in it? Bitterness and euphoria are as bad as one another for getting in the way of living your life.
Guess that's why this whole mess hit me so hard. Heroes were about as likely in my world as a real conspiracy – both scarcer than moonshine on a base run by General Lambert.
But International Rescue…. Well it was kinda hard to sit on the fence on that one. Those guys were doing one heck of a job, and not asking a cent for it. Even up in the space observatories we felt a whole lot safer knowing Thunderbird Three was out there. I guess even I got suckered into the fairy tale and – yeah – into the hero worship too.
So when it came crashing down… when we got our orders… when the observatory broke… when my rocket pack misfired…
It was like watching some rat toss a puppy over a cliff, or reaching for your wallet at a street show only to find the conman's sticky-fingered pal has already taken their dues. The news from base smothered the only glimmer of optimism I've ever seen in this screwy world. If IR are the crooks General Lambert thinks, then to heck with them and the world they fooled. No one wants them to pay for what they've done more than me. If getting me killed means getting them caught, it's not a bad exchange.
"Elliot calling observatory…. Elliot calling…"
My air's getting short. Pretty soon now I'm gonna be a statistic, or… hey… maybe I'll get to be a hero myself. Headlines float in front of the distant stars: "Dying in the Line of Duty" or "Valiant Soldier Sacrifices All to Bring IR Villains to Justice".
Sure.
It's not like I got much of a say in the matter. I guess, though, that when the papers start banging on about whether it was worth it, I want my folks to know the answer's 'yes'.
"Calling… observ… a… tory… Come in… Hale."
Reckon I'm being unfair to Hale by going on like this? What do I expect him to do? The Thunderbird rocket-ship is hardly gonna show now. And it's not like anyone else has got the kit to help.
Say… that's right. Strange how you can think straighter when you've only got a handful of thoughts left. No one out there has got a rocket that can do what Thunderbird Three does. And I've heard enough guys back on base throwing around envious snipes to know the other Thunderbirds're well past our specs too. The new fighter this is all about might go fast, but I'd like to see it stealth like a Thunderbird or pull off a tenth of those rescues.
And that doesn't make sense. Okay, the AL4 is Lambert's baby, and I can't blame the Brass for not thinking straight, but why steal a jet that can't do half what you do already?
"Elliot… calling… Come in… Hale…"
I gasp the words more urgently, determined that if I'm gonna have a dying insight, I've gotta share it, but my voice fades into hoarse pants. I can feel myself beginning to hyperventilate, my lungs straining.
And that's when I see it: the great red Thunderbird rising into my line of sight, glorious and glinting in the Earthshine.
Maybe the warmth that spreads from my chest is the burn of asphyxia, or maybe that glimmer of optimism's still smouldering after all. All I know is that I've never seen anything more lovely or believed in anything more.
'Cause, you know, I've been asking the wrong question.
Was it worth dying to capture IR crooks? Yeah, bitter as it tastes, I was willing to swallow that.
Is it worth thumbing my nose at the Reaper to prove International Rescue heroes instead? You bet it is.
Scott
Alan's fingers drum against the console to my left. The sound of them counterpoints the deep throb of Three's rocket engines, adding a tense note to that steady murmur. My brother's grip on his 'Bird never falters, but there's a distant look in his eyes and his staccato tapping has fallen almost without thought into the rhythms of the parade ground.
Brains would probably be able to suggest a reason for that – well, either Brains or his psychiatrist 'pal' Dr Korda. I don't need to consult them to steal a glimpse into Alan's mind. My youngest brother hasn't had the most regimented of lives. I'm guessing the echoes of an air force base, unconscious memories of his astronaut training, are the closest he can get to imagining the future that's looming in front of us. If so, I'm pretty sure he's in for a bad shock.
Either way, Alan's tense. I can see that in the jerky movements of his hands on the controls, in his pursed lips and the furrow on his brow. Of course, I'm tense myself, and my little brother knows it. Even so, I'm doing my best not to let the nerves show. My hands rest on the arms of my chair, their restless flexing suppressed by force of will. My back is straight, posture cool and controlled. My expression is neutral – the same dispassionate mask I'd use at a rescue zone.
That's exactly what this is, of course. The expanse of darkness that surrounds us is as deadly as any disaster site, or more so. Somewhere out here, a man is gasping for his last breath – believing himself betrayed and abandoned. To him, this rescue is as vital and deeply personal as any we've ever attempted. If he's thought about my brothers and I at all, it's probably been with hatred and to curse our already-blackened names. He won't be expecting Thunderbird Three to swim into view above him. He'll neither know nor care how big a risk we're taking.
If this goes wrong, if Penny and the others can't find a way to clear our names before Three has to land….
Dad said it, and we all know it: we'll be clapped into jail. And that's if we're lucky. For all we know, we'll be paraded through the world's media, our secrecy parodied by a ruthless scrutiny. I'm betting we'll be tried in the court of public opinion long before we see any more legal jury.
Either way, home will be lost to us, return not an option. Dad made that pretty clear before we left, and neither of us let our flinches show. We'll be nameless, abandoned, our official records and identities wiped to protect those we've left behind. It makes a horrifying kind of sense, and I wonder if Alan can read the horrifying images that roil behind my eyes at the thought. I'll never see Virgil again, or Gordon, or our father. And John? Whatever my fate and Alan's, he'll have to share it. Whoever tracks Three will follow it all the way to Five, my brother collected before we de-orbit and land Thunderbird Three for good.
It's almost unthinkable, but the 'almost' makes a difference. Sitting on our hands at home… well, there'd be no 'almost' about that. Even Dad could see that… eventually.
My eyes are glued to the radar screen in front of me, as much to avoid Alan's as in an effort to see a signal amidst the noise. The empty screen taunts us, terrifies us. Are we too late? Is this all for nothing?
Alan stands, looming, as if he can intimidate the screen into submission.
"Try increasing the range."
"Well, I'll try." I can't keep the tension out of my voice. Not any more.
The seconds tick by. Alan's breathing is harsh as he leans against me, squinting.
"There! Did you see something?"
It's a chance, a flicker of hope in the darkness.
"There he is!"
Relief floods the words as it floods Alan's body. He sags beside me, a hand against the console to balance him. My eyes close, a single steadying breath all I can afford before I refocus and grip the controls.
"Well? What're we waiting for? Let's go and get him!"
Three's engine fires. If the watchers didn't see that, they will see the heat of our exhaust trail soon enough. It's all or nothing now. We've committed ourselves, made the call written into our DNA: we can't give up, no matter the cost.
Despite that, the recycled air seems lighter, fresher, somehow easier to breathe, as we fight down the relief and focus on the rescue itself. This isn't over by a long shot, both Alan and I know that. Even when we get the man aboard, we'll have to wait to learn if Lambert and the others hold us to the trade we've already agreed: our freedom for this man's life.
Will they? I don't know.
I just know that Alan is smiling behind his frown of concentration, that sometime soon Elliot's family will laugh and cry and hold him tight, and that when I look in the mirror tomorrow morning – wherever I may be – I'll be able to meet my reflection's eyes without shame.
And if those things come with a price…? Well, I guess it's one I'm willing to pay.
Jeff
If I'm honest, the financial records and spreadsheets littering my desk are there as much to distract me as in hope of finding a clue. I don't really expect to see anything, although I have to check, just in case our enemy was careless. No one knows better than I just how difficult it is to hide the outgoings of an organization this complex. Imitating it, even for one day, should have left a financial trail to follow. The only question is whether the darned mind that conceived these imposters thought to cover its tracks.
If there's so much as a speck of dust left to point their way, I'll find it.
On the screen to my left, John hunches over his console, hacking radar records with the same determination and as little expectation. The discussion to my right – Tin-Tin, Brains and Gordon brainstorming in circles – has faded to occasional low murmurs, pitched to blend with the minor key and slow rhythm of Virgil's playing. His fingers caress the piano, his chosen displacement activity providing a sombre soundtrack to ours. He pauses, rifling through a wad of scores in search of inspiration, before setting the music aside and returning to a half-improvised, half-familiar melody.
Unconsciously, my breathing and pulse have synchronized with the piano's rhythm, my thoughts slowing too as if mired in a quagmire of doubt. A huff of air escapes me, my irritation all for myself as I find I've followed my son's worried eyes to Thunderbird Three's status display. I pull them away. I've spent a lifetime refusing to yield to pointless brooding when there's work to be done; I'm not going to shirk my self-assigned task now.
The financial papers crumple between my clenched fists, ink staining my perspiration-dampened fingers. The inventory of high-pressure trades seems ephemeral and petty. All my experience, half a lifetime playing those markets, and the stakes have never been higher than the gamble I've taken today – nor the potential returns.
A man's life hangs in the balance here.
But, as I told Scott, that's a man. One man. And if we're discovered and put out of business, it could be five hundred over the next month, five thousand in the next year. The final cost, the tally of lives lost or shattered, is impossible to predict, but I know the first names that will appear in the ledger.
A movement catches my eye: Gordon turning to frown at Penny's portrait. His brown eyes are narrowed with frustration, but it's not Lady Penelope that's riled him. I think… I hope… it's not me either… but rather the injustice of fate itself. The same anger is there as a growling undertone to Virgil's music, and burns in me too. I founded International Rescue to combat that cruel injustice. Perhaps I'm being punished for my hubris, but I won't apologise for my decisions. I could no more bow a knee to fate's mastery than ask my boys to sit by while a man breathed his last.
I don't let the anger show, just sit at my desk, shoulders straight and face impassive. My eyes scan the balance tables in intermittent bursts. And all the time, steady as a metronome, Virgil's music counts off the precious seconds - of the astronaut Elliot's air supply, and of the life we know.
An abrupt chord from Virgil, and I turn to the screen rather than my son, coming to my feet. The change in Three's direction, the acceleration, is decisive and purposeful. Instinct, as much as experience, tells me that this is the turning point: that Elliot is found. Whatever the final reckoning, that one life has justified my decision today, and I'll defend it to the bitter end.
I draw in a sharp breath, jerked from my growing torpor. Gordon and Tin-Tin burst into life too, demanding answers no one here can give. I'm already reaching for the radio, when another sound freezes my hand and snaps my head around.
My pulse races, synchronizing now with the more rapid tempo of Penelope's flashed signal, thumping out an upbeat rhythm of hope and promise. I reach blindly for a different switch, leaning forwards as if those few inches can hasten the long-awaited report.
"Jeff." Penny's calm expression gives nothing away. My searching gaze picks out the weary lines around her eyes, the streak of mud marring her perfect hair. Then she smiles a small, satisfied smile. "I'm delighted to be the bearer of glad tidings."
I don't remember sinking into my seat any more than I recall rising from it. Gordon and Virgil crowd in front of the Penny's picture, half-blocking my view as they prise information out of her. I nod at the appropriate times, but the details can wait.
On the opposite display, Thunderbird Three turns Earthwards, her status updated to 'Rescue Successful'. Those details can wait too. I turn instead to the open link with Five, voice firm and resolute.
"John, get me the White House!"
There'll be time later to review the facts – to weigh up the checks and balances of this whole sorry affair – but I know that today we gambled against a harsh world, and we are the ones who've come out the richer for it.
A life has been saved. International Rescue has been cleared. And the bottom line is simple: my boys are coming home – and that, in the final analysis, is a result beyond any price.
