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It had been a month since Alan found out the truth.
A month had passed since he'd discovered the birth certificate in Scott’s room, the one that named Scott Carpenter Tracy as his father. A month since the world had tipped sideways beneath him and refused to right itself. Since he’d run away. Climbed the unstable ridge in a storm of betrayal and anger. And fell off.
A month since Scott had caught him mid-air, risking his life to do it, only to also fall and injure his shoulder in the process.
Since Alan had woken up concussed and sore to find Scott bruised and broken beside his bed, refusing to leave him.
The last month was a strange span of time. Just long enough for things to stop being raw. But not quite long enough to stop them from feeling surreal.
The truth had come out after Alan's discovery. Alan's real mother, Charlotte, had signed away guardianship before he was even born. Scott, who had gone back on tour, hadn't known that the woman he met briefly on his leave had his baby. Not until Alan was three and Lucille had passed away. By then, it was too late to simply claim him. As far as the courts were concerned, the paperwork signing Alan over to Jeff and Lucille Tracy was perfectly legal. And unless Jeff changed his mind and relinquished custody, Scott had no parental rights.
Scott had tried. Petition after petition, quiet legal battles behind the scenes. All denied.
No one had told Alan because they felt it wasn’t their place and hadn't wanted to disrupt the only stable life he had since Lucille passed away. Because they hadn’t been sure when or if, it would ever be the right time.
Everyone else had known.
Alan already knew that Virgil had known since the beginning. As he was there when Scott found the truth, hidden among old papers in their mother’s office. It had been just after Lucille’s funeral, when they were sorting through her things, looking for old photos, Scott had said. What they found instead was Alan's birth certificate with Scott’s name listed as his father and guardianship documents signing custody of Alan to Lucille and Jeff Tracy.
It had hit him like a body blow.
Jeff had tried to explain. Said Scott had been too young back then and had just started his career with the Air Force. And not long after Charlotte approached them, they had received news that Scott was missing in action and most likely dead. Fearing Charlotte would give Alan up for adoption they agreed to take custody. They could not lose their only link to their son. But, when Scott was found and returned from the war, changed and hurting, Jeff didn’t think it was the right time to drop something like this on him. He said Alan needed stability. That telling him would only complicate things. That waiting was better.
Scott hadn’t agreed.
But he hadn’t fought back either, not at first. Not until later after putting Alan to bed for the first time and reading him a story, when Scott felt small arms wrap around his middle and looked down at this small, bright, grieving child and realized he didn’t want to be just a big brother.
He wanted to be a father .
That’s when the petitions started.
Surprisingly but maybe it shouldn’t have been, finding out John and Gordon had also known the truth.
John had known, too, of course he had. He kept meticulous records of every file in the family network, medical or otherwise. He probably knew Scott’s petition history better than Scott did. But he never brought it up. Just kept quiet, like always, and waited for the moment Scott was ready to talk .
Gordon had known in his own way. He’d overheard too many arguments between Scott and Jeff, put the pieces together, and filled in the blanks himself.
And Grandma?
She’d known about the custody attempts. She’d seen the forms and the exhaustion in Scott’s eyes after every new denial. But she’d assumed he was doing it out of duty. Out of guilt. Out of some need to fill the space Jeff had left behind. She hadn’t realized it was love. She hadn’t realized Scott was trying, not just to protect Alan, but to be his father.
Scott hadn’t carried the truth entirely alone.
But he’d carried the weight of not being allowed .
And eventually, he stopped talking about it with Virgil. Instead buried his hurt in silence. Buried it under work and missions and quiet evenings sitting on the couch with Alan snuggled against his side like nothing was wrong.
But now the truth was out.
Alan still wasn’t sure how he felt about it. About Scott being his dad. About the others keeping it quiet. About the fact that nothing had changed and yet everything had.
Life on Tracy Island had changed.
Scott raising Alan and making the calls about home, school, or International Rescue hadn’t really changed. But now that the secret was out, he was much more confident in his decisions. He’d gone full dad mode, backed completely by his brothers and Grandma. Especially Grandma, who had taken him under her wing, offering steady streams of parenting advice, little tips, and even pulling out a stack of old parenting books for them to read together. Alan had walked in on the two of them at the kitchen table one evening, deep in discussion about “positive reinforcement techniques” like it was a mission briefing.
Alan also now had a bedtime again. Lights out by 10:30, no screens after 9:30, and absolutely no more marathon gaming sessions until he passed out on the floor at 3 a.m. Though the gaming restrictions didn’t matter much at the moment since Scott had confiscated all his games, after putting his life at risk and disobeying Scott, Scott had confiscated every piece of technology and game Alan owned.
Even his diet was no longer safe. Gone were the glorious days of three bowls of hyper-sugary cereal for breakfast and a secret stash of chocolate bars in his sock drawer. Now it was eggs, fruit, toast and occasionally some green smoothie that smelled like freshly mowed grass.
Worst of all?
His days had structure now.
No more “winging it” between rescues and simulator time. Scott had built him a full homeschool schedule complete with colour-coded blocks, digital alerts, and strict boundaries. He had set study hours , and no missions were allowed to interfere with them . “Education comes first,” Scott said. “Always.”
Alan had tried to argue that field experience was practical learning . Scott hadn’t even blinked.
And then there was the screen time restriction . One hour in the afternoon. One hour in the evening. That was it. Anything extra had to be earned. With chores .
As if that weren’t enough, there was also the Scouts .
Not virtual or online scouts. Not a simulation or GDF-accredited youth initiative. No. Actual Boy Scouts. Twice a week in Hawaii .
Apparently, Grandma had suggested it first “to help him build friendships outside the family.” Scott had agreed, saying Alan needed connection with kids his own age, not just with family and family friends. He called it good for his “social development and character-building.”
Alan called it humiliating .
Or at least, he had .
He didn’t talk about it much, but... it wasn’t all bad.
The rock climbing was fun. So was archery. He was surprisingly good at orienteering, and the outdoor survival drills were awesome, especially the ones where you had to build your own shelter and make a fire from scratch. And the father-son competitions? Those were kind of amazing. Even if he pretended to groan about them, Scott always went all in, turning every challenge into a two-man mission. And they made a great team.
And though he’d never admit it to Scott, he was secretly looking forward to the upcoming surfing lessons and the father-son camping trip.
Not after all the complaining Alan had done.
Still... part of him couldn’t deny that, sometimes, being the centre of Scott’s world was nice.
Sometimes.
Today, at least, was a good day. He’d finished his assignments, earned back some of his screen privileges, and had the Central Lounge to himself for once.
Alan grabbed the holo projector remote, flopped onto the couch, and queued up the brand-new season of Alien Invasion . The glowing blue interface pulsed, and with a grin of pure satisfaction, he hit “play.”
The alien screeched as it burst from the shadows, green, twelve-eyed, and flinging acid.
"This is it. This is the good stuff."
The large holo projector in the middle of the coffee table shimmered with light, projecting the latest season of Alien Invasion: Omega in full surround display. Tiny flickers of glowing green acid sprayed outward in 3D as the alien lunged at the screen’s virtual camera, drawing a delighted laugh from Alan. He sprawled comfortably on the couch in the Central Lounge, a bowl of popcorn perched on his lap, socked feet tapping the floor as explosions lit the space above the table.
For once, life was good.
Until Gordon showed up.
“ Clear the couch, Astro-Nerd! ” came the unmistakably loud voice of Gordon Tracy as he strutted into the lounge, towel around his neck and damp footprints trailing behind him. His hair dripping, board shorts clinging to his skin, and his shirt unbuttoned and wet.
Alan barely had time to react before Gordon leaned over and snatched the remote to the holo projector.
The alien vanished mid-snarl.
In its place, the hologram shifted to a coral reef scene, where a calm narrator was saying, “...these curious cleaner wrasse maintain the delicate balance of reef life—”
“ Gordon! ” Alan cried, bolting upright and nearly flinging popcorn everywhere.
“You’re welcome,” Gordon said, dropping onto the couch with a satisfied groan. “I’ve just upgraded your afternoon from sci-fi junk to quality marine programming. You can thank me later.”
“I was watching Alien Invasion! The new season just came out!”
“Yeah, and I just spent my whole morning cleaning Thunderbird Four!” Gordon flung his towel dramatically over the back of the couch. “Do you have any idea how long it takes to clean barnacles out of a turbine intake?”
Alan blinked. “You were in the pool.”
“I was decompressing! I spent an hour scraping algae off with a toothbrush!”
“That’s not my problem! DAD!”
Gordon leaned back and kicked up his feet. “Look, I’m just saying, if you spent half as much time learning about actual science as you do watching fictional slime monsters, maybe you wouldn’t be grounded so often.”
Alan lunged for the remote.
Gordon intercepted it without looking, raising it just out of reach with a maddening grin. “C’mon, Space Gremlin. Expand those horizons. Cephalopods are awesome . Did you know they can taste with their arms? ”
“Give the remote back . ”
“Make me.”
“You can’t just take it!”
“I can, I did, and I will do it again.”
Alan lunged again. Gordon twisted away, laughing, and the two of them tumbled sideways across the couch. Alan, smaller but scrappy, scrambled to gain control only for Gordon to roll smoothly, swat him with a pillow, and pin him in seconds.
“You’re still mad I got to go up to Five last week,” Gordon said, smug and breathless as he held Alan off with one arm. “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, lil’ man.”
“You stole my supply run duty ! ” Alan yelled.
“Yep. In Thunderbird three too. With snacks as well, your gonna have fun scraping all that cheese out of the controls. Your fault for sneaking off and ignoring comms.”
“I didn’t know John was calling for a mission!”
“You also let me take the fall for the booby-trapping Scott's bedroom! The exploding shaving foam? The screaming alarm clock? Superglue on everything?! Ring any bells?”
“You deserved it! You put anchovy paste in my toothpaste and your rotten socks under my pillow!”
Gordon cackled. “Yeah, well, at least I admitted it. You just let Scott think it was me, and you owe me for that, squirt.”
They rolled off the couch entirely, landing in a heap on the floor. Gordon got Alan in a headlock, digging his knuckles into Alan’s scalp.
“Say it,” Gordon sang. “Say I’m your favourite uncle.”
“ Never! ”
“Then say goodbye to your brain cells. Welcome to Marine Biology: Extended Edition!”
“Get off me, asshole!”
“ BOYS. ”
The voice cracked through the chaos like a thunderclap.
Grandma stood in the archway, arms folded, and one eyebrow raised to maximum disapproval.
Alan and Gordon froze.
“I leave you alone for five minutes, and this is what I come back to?” she demanded. “Gordon, let go of Alan.”
Gordon lifted his arms, still grinning. “We’re bonding.”
Alan rolled away with a gasp, hair a mess, face flushed. “He started it!”
“I didn’t do anything!”
“You changed the channel!”
“You weren’t even watching it!”
“I was too!”
“ Enough! ”
They both fell silent.
Moments later, another voice entered, unimpressed, and unmistakably tired.
“What’s going on here?”
Scott Tracy strode into the lounge, one arm in a sling and his eyebrows raised. Dressed in a worn henley and jeans, a tablet tucked under his good arm, he had the sharp, weary look of a man already three sighs past done.
Alan straightened like a cadet caught sneaking into the engine bay. “We were just—uh—”
Scott glanced between the two of them. “Alan?”
“Gordon wouldn’t let me watch my show and he put me in a headlock.”
Scott looked at Gordon. “And you thought that was a good idea, why, exactly? You do remember he has only just recovered from a concussion?”
Gordon held up his hands. “Hey, I was careful! No brains were harmed in the making of this argument.”
Before Scott could respond, the holo projector beeped again, shifting to a glowing blue interface.
“Incoming call from Thunderbird 5.”
John appeared, calm and professional as usual.
“Sorry to interrupt Family Fight Club, ” John said dryly. “We’ve got a situation.”
“A section of the Kaikotan Skybridge has partially collapsed,” he reported. “Looks like earthquake aftershocks from last month’s seismic activity finally caught up with the structure. One of the main suspension towers has snapped at the midline. We’ve got two maintenance workers trapped on the eastern tower and people trapped in their cars.”
Scott straightened, frowning. “How bad is it?”
“Bad,” John confirmed. “Structural integrity is compromised. The stabilisers buckled, and the suspension cables are under erratic stress. Several have already snapped. The remaining wires are whipping around like steel whips. It’s too dangerous for a standard rescue team to approach. Local responders have pulled back.”
Gordon was already half-risen, game face on. “So we’re talking high-altitude cable entanglement, structural collapse risk, and unpredictable whip-lash hazards?”
“Bingo,” John said grimly. “You’ll need full shock harnesses and probably the zero-g rig for this one.”
Scott set down his tablet and turned toward the chute entrance. “Alright. I’ll gear up. Gordon, you’re with me. We’ll take Two.”
Alan opened his mouth already halfway to volunteering when a new voice interrupted.
“ You’ll take nothing.”
Virgil came in behind Scott, yawning as he walked in barefoot, tugging on a rumpled shirt. His usually styled hair was still flattened from sleep, and he carried a cup of coffee like it was the only thing holding him upright.
“You’re benched, remember?” he added, nodding toward Scott’s still-slung arm.
Scott scowled. “It’s been a month. It’ll be fine”
“Absolutely not, that shoulder is still healing because you insisted on resetting it without proper medical assistance," Virgil replied blandly, sipping his coffee. “Try pulling a fully-grown worker out of a twisted steel death trap with one arm and see how that ends.”
Scott opened his mouth again.
Virgil raised a hand. “No. Don’t even try it. You know I’m right.”
There was a beat.
“Fine,” Scott said, through gritted teeth. “But take Gordon. John, see if the GDF has anyone to spare who can come and help.”
Gordon saluted. “I’ll be strapped in and fabulous as always.”
“I’ll transmit schematics and cable stress analysis to Two’s onboard system. You’ll need to go in from above. Rescue drone insertion isn’t viable, the winds up there are nuts.”
Virgil was already halfway to the hidden wall panel that led to Thunderbird 2’s chute. “F.A.B. John. We will launch in thirty.”
Gordon grabbed a protein bar off the table, winked at Alan, and jogged to his launch chute. “Try not to miss me too much, Space Gremlin.”
Alan rolled his eyes.
The moment the two of them vanished, Grandma sighed and walked down the steps into the sunken lounge. “Looks like it’s just us three for the rest of the day.”
Scott lowered himself carefully onto the couch with a groan, muttering something under his breath about “retirement” and “meddling brothers.”
Grandma raised an eyebrow as she passed. “You should be in bed resting.”
“I am resting.”
“Not with that look on your face. That’s your ‘I’m still plotting how to get into the field’ face.”
Scott didn’t deny it.
Grandma turned to Alan. “And you should be studying.”
Alan perked up. “I did ! I finished everything this morning. Ask Dad.”
Scott, still trying to get comfortable on the couch, nodded without looking up. “He’s right. Finished a whole week's lesson two days early. Even beat the quiz bot.”
“Which means I’m allowed screen time,” Alan added quickly, gesturing to the holo projector. “And the new season of Alien Invasion just came out!”
Grandma folded her arms.
Scott met her gaze with a tired shrug. “It’s fine, Grandma.”
“Hmph,” she muttered, but didn’t argue. “Well. I’m making lunch. Don’t get popcorn in the couch cushions again, or you’ll be sorry.”
She disappeared into the kitchen with purposeful clatter.
Alan flopped back into the cushions, victorious, and changed the channel with the volume back up. Onscreen, the alien exploded into green goo again.
Scott sighed, dropping his head back with a groan.
—
Alien plasma splattered across the screen in glowing 3D, oozing in every direction as a twelve-legged monster screeched dramatically into the camera.
Scott winced.
The holo projector, parked in the middle of the lounge’s coffee table, was doing its job too well, immersing the entire space in surround visuals and eardrum-rattling sound design. It was like being trapped inside a B-grade alien horror film with no exit.
Alan, of course, was loving every second.
Scott sat slumped on the couch’s other end, comms tablet balanced on his knee, trying and failing to read through a logistics report from Tracy Industries’ Australian supply division. He’d reread the same sentence three times and still couldn’t make sense of it.
“You know,” he muttered without looking up, “if aliens were real, they’d sue for defamation after watching this. Pretty sure this is lowering both our IQs right now.”
“Shh!” Alan waved him off, eyes locked on the screen. “They’re about to breach the dome!”
Another explosion lit the room. Something screeched. Something else dissolved.
Scott gave up.
He leaned back and pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. Just as he was contemplating whether ejecting the holo projector into the ocean would be too extreme, the comms line pinged again. The projector flickered mid-mutation and John’s face reappeared, looking slightly more amused than before.
“Round two already?” Scott asked wearily.
“Not quite,” John replied. “This one’s more of a… favour.”
Alan sat up straighter. “Favour?”
John hesitated just long enough to be dramatic. “A request from the GDF. One of their orbital debris crews had an accident and ended up in the middle of the Tasman Sea. No serious injuries, but their vessel’s down for repairs.”
Scott frowned. “And the debris field?”
“There is still debris in orbit. The usual sweep team can’t clear it until they’re back online, and the GDF doesn’t want to risk leaving it up there. There’s a navigation hazard warning out.”
Alan was already bouncing on the couch. “We could do it! Thunderbird Three could totally handle this!”
John nodded. “My thoughts exactly.”
Scott’s eyes narrowed. “You want Alan to fly?”
Alan turned pleading eyes on his father. “Come on, Dad. Please. I’m not grounded anymore, I finished all my schoolwork this morning, and I’ve been following all your stupid rules for a whole month. I even drank the green smoothie.”
Scott blinked. “You put it in a potted plant.”
“Still counts.”
John raised a brow. “He’s not wrong. It’s a simple task, Scott. No atmospheric turbulence or hostile environments. Just precision flying and light thruster work. He can use the external arms to reel in the larger chunks.”
Scott looked unconvinced. “You just said the last crew crashed their ship.”
“They misjudged their descent burn and hit water at speed,” John said. “The problem was the landing. Not the job itself. Their orbital report was clean.”
Alan leaned forward. “I’ve done at least a dozen debris clean-ups before! I can do this!”
Scott didn’t answer.
Alan pressed on, more quietly. “Please? I can do this.”
A beat passed. Then Grandma’s voice floated over, warm and casual, a little too casual. “Sounds like a good opportunity for the both of you.”
Scott turned his head slightly.
She walked into the lounge, carrying a tray of very questionably baked muffins. “You’ve been cooped up here for a month, Scott, pacing between reports and sulking in that sling. He’s been following your rules. Let him go. And you can go with him. Take a break from staring at paperwork. Sit in the co-pilot seat, relax, supervise… stay out for a while.”
Scott narrowed his eyes at her last words. “Stay out for a while?”
She just smiled. “Fresh air or in this case fresh space, will do you both good.”
Alan, sensing an opportunity, leaned toward Scott. “She’s right. You never say no to Grandma.”
Scott looked from John’s patient face, to Grandma’s suspiciously innocent one, to Alan’s hopeful grin.
He groaned, rubbed his face, and muttered, “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”
Alan lit up. “So that’s a yes?!”
Scott sighed. “One mission. One. And only because it’s a controlled environment. You follow every order, exactly. And I’m coming with you.”
Alan fist-pumped the air. “YES!”
John sent the coordinates through. “The debris field is in low orbit above the South Pacific. You’ll have just under three hours to clean it up before it drifts into the eastern launch corridor.”
Scott was already standing. “We’ll prep Three. Thanks, John.”
John gave a small smile. “Good luck. And Alan?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t get too cocky.”
Alan saluted with mock seriousness. “FAB.”
Thunderbird Three launched clean and fast, streaking skyward through layers of blue, white, and then the black velvet of low orbit.
Alan grinned at the controls, fingers dancing across the console like he’d been born there. He loved this part, the hum of the engines, the weightless sensation, the way Thunderbird Three responded to his every move like it was an extension of himself.
Beside him in the co-pilot seat, Scott had leaned back during ascent and somewhere between launch and reaching the upper atmosphere had fallen asleep. His head lolled slightly to the side, slinged arm resting in his lap, and he was snoring. Not quite Virgil-level, but loud enough to be noticeable over the steady background hum of the ship. It was so unlike Scott to sleep in the cockpit that Alan could only guess Grandma had finally succeeded in forcing him to take the stronger pain meds before launch.
“Thunderbird Three,” came John’s voice over the comms. “You’re now in stable orbit. The debris field is twenty clicks starboard. Sending target telemetry.”
“FAB,” Alan replied. “Engaging maneuvering thrusters. Let’s go sweep up some space trash.”
“Have fun,” John said dryly. “You’ll be pleased to know the largest chunk is an old orbital booster engine. Probably GDF surplus, abandoned in low orbit about twenty years ago.”
“Wait, like... an actual rocket engine?”
“Mark-IV thruster assembly,” John confirmed. “From the early days of high-altitude launches. Looks like it was jettisoned during reentry and just... never came down.”
Alan’s eyes widened as the engine came into view, scorched, pitted, and slowly rotating. The once-white GDF emblem was faint but unmistakable.
“Oh, that is awesome.”
“Get ready,” John warned. “It’s got some spin. Match velocity and pull it in slowly.”
“Copy that,” Alan said, adjusting the thruster output. “Activating grappling arms... engaging electromagnet cables.”
Thunderbird Three drifted into position, its long robotic arms unfolding smoothly from the lower hull. Alan guided them in, lining up the shot like he was threading a needle. The twin magnet cables fired outward two shining coils of energy hooking cleanly onto reinforced bracing just below the engine’s nozzle.
“Grapple secured,” Alan said. “Drawing it in now.”
The tension gauges climbed as the engine resisted briefly, then began to reel in. Alan compensated with gentle course corrections, keeping the ship steady as the thruster swung closer and finally settled against the containment rig.
“Target secured. No scratches. Bonus points for style?”
John’s voice returned, unimpressed. “Just don’t drop it.”
Alan grinned. “Hey... uh, can I keep it?”
“No,” John said immediately.
“Oh, come on,” Alan protested. “It’s practically vintage! I could turn it into a sculpture. Or a fire pit. Or—”
John cut him off. “Or you could focus on the other debris still out here.”
Small debris drifted past Thunderbird Three’s curved viewport as Alan adjusted their heading again. Another chunk floated into range, a piece of shredded panel, jagged edges glinting in the sunlight.
“Engaging mag cables,” Alan said, fingers flying across the controls. “Target locked... and pulled in. That’s number eleven. How many more of these are there?”
“Oh, only about ninety-eight left,” John replied smoothly.
Alan groaned. “Of course there are.”
He slouched slightly. “Y’know, Gordon and Virgil are probably saving someone dangling off a falling bridge right now, and I’m up here doing garbage duty.”
“Think of it as Character-building,” John offered.
Alan rolled his eyes. “You and Dad have been spending way too much time together.”
Scott snored loudly in response, entirely unaware of the jab.
Alan lined up another target and reeled it in. “That’s twelve.”
“Only ninety-seven to go,” John said, bone dry.
Alan sighed and scanned for the next target. The console beeped. “Okay… got something coming up ahead.”
He leaned forward, frowning. “Huh. That’s weird… scanners aren’t picking anything up. Hey, John, are you seeing this?”
“Are you sure it’s not dirt on your portal again?” John asked innocently.
“That was space dust, and it was one time,” Alan shot back.
“I logged three,” John said.
Alan rolled his eyes. “Nope. It’s out there, alright. Which means I get to go out for a wander.”
“Any excuse.”
He unbuckled his shoulder harness and started to rise—
“Sit down.”
Scott’s voice snapped through the cockpit like a whip, suddenly wide awake. Years of military training meant he could go from dead asleep to full alert in a second.His eyes were sharp now, the fog of sleep gone in an instant.
Alan froze. “What? I just want—”
Scott leaned forward, gaze locked on the viewport. “John, are you sure nothing is showing on any of Five’s scanners?”
“Sorry, Scott, I’m not picking up anything,” John confirmed.
Alan watched Scott’s jaw tighten. “There’s definitely something there. Looks like… an old mine, maybe. Though it doesn’t look active, it could be a dud.”
Alan’s head snapped around so fast his neck twinged. “A mine?!”
John’s voice sharpened. “That’s a big maybe. I’ll patch Brains into the channel.”
There was a brief crackle, then Brains’ familiar stammer came through. “Ah y-yes, if it’s invisible to the scanners, that suggests a form of stealth shielding. Possibly military in origin. The only way to identify it for sure is to get closer and scan it through to me.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do,” Scott said immediately, unbuckling.
Alan swiveled in his seat, disbelief hitting first. “Wait…you’re going out there?”
“Yes,” Scott replied firmly. “Stay here and keep us steady.”
“Hold on!” Alan twisted toward him. “You’ve still got a busted shoulder! Virgil’s still grumbling about you not resting, and Grandma nearly had a fit when she caught you trying to move those engine parts last week. You’re not exactly on the ‘approved for space stunts’ list right now.”
Scott gave a half-smirk, already heading for the back of the cockpit. “Good thing I don’t remember signing up for that list.”
“Dad!” Alan shot back. “If Grandma finds out you went EVA with a broken shoulder—”
“She’ll probably bake me a get-well pie,” Scott said, smirking. “Relax, I’ve done riskier things with worse injuries.”
“That’s not the reassurance you think it is,” Alan muttered.
Scott ignored him, swinging open the narrow hatch door to the gear locker. A row of neatly secured EVA suits, helmets, and mission cases lined the wall. He scanned the shelves, then froze.
“Alan.”
“...Yeah?”
Scott didn’t look back. “When I told you to load all the supply containers before launch, what exactly did you do with them?”
Alan tried for innocence, though his voice squeaked just slightly. “I, uh, loaded the emergency space kit in the cargo bay?”
Scott’s voice dropped a degree. “And what did you do with the blue container?”
Alan grimaced and his stomach sank instantly.. “Oh. That one.”
Scott turned slowly, expression flat. “Yes. That one.”
Alan’s voice went small. “I… might have put it on Thunderbird One.”
Scott shut his eyes briefly, clearly resisting the urge to swear. Alan could practically feel the frustration radiating off him. “Alan. That container had my jetpack in it.”
Alan’s ears went hot. “I… thought it went with Thunderbird One’s gear?”
“Why,” Scott said, exasperation sharp in every syllable, “would I need my jetpack on a ship I’m not piloting today?!”
Alan sank down in his seat. “I’m… really sorry.”
Scott blew out a frustrated breath, muttering, “Unbelievable,” before grabbing an astroboard from the rack.
Moments later, Alan tracked him through the viewport as he shot out of the airlock, crouched low on the board. Each shift of his weight sent him gliding closer to the mine. Alan had to admit that he made it look easy.
“You’re actually good at that,” Alan said over comms.
“I was the one who taught you how to skateboard,” Scott replied without slowing.
Alan hesitated. “Yeah, but that was years ago before you started getting grey hair and making that noise every time you stand up.”
Scott’s voice came back instantly, dry as ever. “Pretty sure you’re the reason for all my grey hair.”
Up close, the object was no longer just another piece of drifting debris. Alan squinted at the feed from Scott’s suit cam: Making out a sphere of interlocking armour panels, each bristling with thin antennae and blade-like protrusions. Deep grooves ran between the segments, glowing with a faint, ominous red light that pulsed in steady rhythm.
“All right, Brains,” Scott said, activating the scan relay. “You should be getting telemetry now.”
“R-receiving,” Brains replied. “It’s… oh. Oh dear. That’s an orbital stealth mine, left over from the Global Conflict of 2040. Designed to stay dormant until triggered by motion or—”
The mine twitched.
A set of segmented armour plates shifted slightly, revealing a small digital display on the central core. Numbers began ticking down in increments.
Alan felt his chest tighten.
“Brains,” Scott said, voice going cold, “it’s started counting down.”
That was all John needed to hear. “Scott, get out of there!”
Alan didn’t blink until Scott was back in the airlock, then sliding into the co-pilot seat. “Full burn. Now, Alan.”
Alan’s hands moved automatically, throttling forward. The debris field fell away — but then a sharp ping rang through the cockpit.
John’s voice came over the comms, tense. “Scott, the mine has locked onto Thunderbird Three.”
Scott’s eyes swept the readouts. “Can we lead it somewhere isolated and detonate it?”
“That w-would be a bad idea,” Brains cut in. “According to these schematics it has a gravitational trigger. If it leaves its current orbital radius, it detonates instantly and the blast will take Thunderbird Three with it.”
Scott exhaled through his nose, already shifting to strategy. “So deep space is off the table. Is there any way we can jam it?”
“No,” John said. “The old command network’s gone. If it’s locked onto you, it’ll treat you like a target until it’s destroyed. The only way to shut it down is with a kill code.”
Alan’s eyes darted to the countdown every second suddenly felt louder.
Scott’s gaze narrowed, a new thought flickering. “What if we use the electromagnet cables? Grapple the mine and tow it fast, then break hard and sling it into deep space. Like a catapult shot.” His voice had that clipped, confident edge, the same tone he used when laying out a flight plan, as if sheer willpower could make the physics cooperate.
Alan’s eyes widened. “You want to yeet a bomb into orbit?” His voice cracked higher than he wanted, but honestly, who wouldn’t?
Scott didn’t flinch. “If we accelerate hard enough, it could carry its momentum right out of orbit. We let go just before the break, it sails on, and we’re clear.”
For one insane heartbeat, Alan actually pictured it working. Thunderbird Three swinging the mine like a hammer throw, flinging it into the black.
Then Brains cut in, horrified. “Scott, do you really want to test fate like that? If the mine recognises the cables as a hostile contact, it could detonate the instant you latch on. And even if it doesn’t, the release trajectory might not clear Thunderbird Three before detonation. You’d be strapping yourselves to the bomb.”
Scott’s jaw flexed, the idea discarded as quickly as it had come. His eyes stayed locked ahead. “Then we keep it on us and buy you time to find that code.”
“I see no alternative,” Brains said slowly, “but it will be risky. If you lose its focus for too long, it could retarget and I’m detecting multiple vessels on approach to your position now.”
“Which means,” Scott said flatly, “we don’t let it lock on to anyone else.”
Alan swung Thunderbird Three into a controlled arc, the mine following in a perfect, ominous mirror. “Guess we’re playing chase then.”
John’s voice stayed level. “Scott, I’m digging into the old GDF weapons database now.”
There was a pause as fingers tapped rapidly over a console. “Okay… I’ve got something,” John said. “An old hardcopy scan. The model and I.D. matches your visuals exactly.”
“That’s good, right?” Alan asked.
“Not exactly,” John said dryly. “It’s a paper record and the scan quality’s bad. The kill code is listed, but the last digit’s too faded to read.”
Alan made a face. “So we just guess? Zero to nine?”
Brains jumped in quickly. “Absolutely not. You only get one chance to enter the kill code. Entering the wrong one will detonate the mine instantly.”
Alan muttered, “Okay, okay. Just trying to help.”
“I’m contacting the archive to get the original file,” John continued.
Minutes dragged as Alan kept Three weaving through space, the mine shadowing every move. Then John’s voice came back, irritation creeping in. “We’ve got a problem. The archive staff… aren’t exactly being cooperative.”
Alan risked a glance at Scott. He’d gone very still, his expression sharpening. “Put me through.”
There was a pause. “Uh, Scott—”
“Put. Me. Through,” Scott said, and Alan had heard that tone enough to know someone was about to regret their life choices.
A few clicks later, a woman’s voice came over the comms, flat and mechanical, like she was reading it straight from a script.
“You have reached the Consolidated File Archive, London branch. If you have an existing inquiry, tap here. For a new inquiry, tap here—”
“This is Scott Tracy. I need an urgent file—”
“If you’d like to request a file, please fill out form C-Forty-Two and submit it for processing,” she continued, talking right over him. “If you are following up on an existing request—”
“Ma’am, this is time-critical—” Scott tried again.
“All calls are handled in the order they are received,” she interrupted smoothly. “You will have to wait your turn.”
Alan kept his eyes forward, but he could feel the change in Scott’s posture beside him — a tightening in his shoulders, a deeper set to his jaw. His dad was still calm, but Alan knew the signs. He’d seen Scott in enough briefings and arguments to know when his fuse was burning low.
Scott tried one last time, still measured. “An active mine has locked onto our ship. I need the kill code to shut it down before it detonates.”
“Yes, well, you’ll need to complete the correct forms before—” she began.
Scott’s voice dropped into the command tone, the one that could stop Gordon mid-sentence and make even Virgil sit up straighter. “Listen to me carefully. This is Scott Tracy, CEO of Tracy Industries and commander of International Rescue. My ship, with my son onboard, has less than thirty minutes before that mine explodes. You are going to put me through to the person who can get me that file, and you are going to do it now. If you don’t, you will be explaining to the GDF and the global media why you let an entire spacecraft blow up because you were too busy shuffling paper. Do I make myself clear?”
There was a pause, and for a second Alan thought that had done it.
Then the woman’s voice came back, smug and dismissive. “Sir, if this is an attempt to bypass security protocol—”
Alan saw the exact moment Scott’s patience disintegrated. The polite commander was gone. What was left was the version of his dad that nobody wanted to be on the wrong side of.
“John,” Scott said, voice cutting through the cockpit like a blade. “Get Colonel Casey of the GDF on this channel. Now.”
There was the faintest hesitation before John replied, “FAB.”
Seconds later, the comms chimed again and Casey’s voice came through, sharp and alert. “Colonel Casey here. Scott, what’s going on?”
Scott didn’t take his eyes off the mine’s red, ticking countdown. “Colonel, we have an active mine locked onto Thunderbird Three. We have thirty minutes or less before detonation. The Consolidated File Archive in London is withholding the only complete kill code.”
The woman’s voice stammered back to life. “I…that’s not—”
“Colonel Casey,” Scott said, his tone never softening, “I want her name, her supervisor’s name, and a copy of this call pulled into GDF records now . And I want her manager to know they are both one obstruction charge away from second-degree murder if that mine detonates while my son is still aboard.”
Alan didn’t think the cockpit could get any quieter, but somehow it did.
Scott wasn’t finished. “You will transfer me to the person who can get me that kill code in the next thirty seconds. Because if you don’t, I guarantee the next call you take will be from the GDF legal department. And when they’re done with you, I’ll make sure the media has your name, your voice, and a full recording of you refusing to save lives.”
There was a brittle crackle of silence on the line.
Then, in a voice that had lost every trace of smugness: “One moment, sir.”
Alan kept Thunderbird Three weaving just enough to hold the mine’s attention. The countdown glared in the corner of the display every tick pulling his stomach a little tighter.
Less than a minute later, a different voice came on the line, clipped and professional. “This is Senior Officer Marks, weapons archives. I have your kill code.”
“Go ahead,” Scott said.
“Seven… four… nine… five,” the voice read out, slow and deliberate.
Scott repeated the numbers under his breath, committing them to memory. “FAB. Alan, keep us steady. I’m going out.”
Alan glanced at him. “You sure you don’t want me—”
“No.” Scott’s tone brooked no argument. “I’ve done this before. Just keep her nose pointed forward.”
Alan bit his tongue and held the ship steady while his dad pulled on the EVA gear, sealed his helmet, and grabbed the astroboard. Watching him drop out of the airlock and cut a precise arc toward the mine made Alan’s pulse hammer, not because he didn’t think Scott could do it, but because he was out there . One wrong move and—
“Approaching target,” Scott’s voice crackled through comms, calm as if he were doing a systems check. He latched onto one of the mine’s stabilising struts, braced himself, and began inputting the numbers directly into the small recessed panel near its core.
Alan watched the countdown blink… slow… stop. The display went dark.
“Mine deactivated,” Scott confirmed. “Brains, you getting this?”
“FAB,” Brains stammered, relief flooding his tone. “And Scott? If we can modify the telemetry from its guidance systems, we could potentially use it to locate and deactivate other mines still in orbit.”
“That’s worth doing,” Scott agreed, gliding back toward Thunderbird Three. “Colonel Casey, I’d like a team on standby to work with Brains and the GDF tech division to make that happen.”
“You’ll have it,” Casey said. Then her voice sharpened. “And the Consolidated File Archive? I’ll be personally filing a non-compliance report for obstruction during an active life-threatening situation. Their department won’t enjoy the fallout.”
“Thank you,” Scott said, stepping back into the cockpit and pulling off his helmet. “The next crew that runs into a mine like that shouldn’t have to fight bureaucracy to survive.”
“Understood,” Casey replied.
Alan stayed quiet as they broke orbit, the deactivated mine secured in the containment rig. Scott settled into the co-pilot seat, running one last systems check before glancing at him.
“Set course for home.”
Alan smiled faintly and pushed the throttles forward. Thunderbird Three’s nose tilted Earthward, the stars slowly giving way to blue.
Later that night, Alan tossed and turned, his body trapped in the grip of a nightmare. His heart pounded, breath ragged, as the dream locked him back into Thunderbird Three’s pilot seat. The mine loomed ahead, its red digits racing down faster and faster.
30, 29, 28, 27, 26…
Scott was shouting over the comms, but the archive lady kept droning on, asking for forms, and clearance papers. The countdown blazed on the console in furious red, each tick hammering through his skull.
25, 24, 23, 22, 21, 20…
“You have reached the Consolidated File Archive, London branch. If you have an existing inquiry, tap here. For a new inquiry, tap here—”
Alan clawed at the console, hands flying uselessly over controls. Scott’s voice cut through, desperate now, but the archive lady kept talking, as if none of it mattered.
20, 19, 18, 17, 16, 15…
“…For clearance verification, tap here. For denied clearance appeals, tap here. For retrieval time estimates, tap here. For complaints, tap here—”
14, 13, 12, 11, 10…
“If you’d like to request a file, please fill out form C-Forty-Two and submit it for processing,” she continued, talking right over him. “If you are following up on an existing request—”
9, 8, 7, 6, 5…
The final digit never came. The voice from the archive cut off mid-sentence. The numbers hit zero.
And then the world went white.
Alan jolted awake, gasping, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. His heart hammered against his ribs, the phantom glow of the countdown still seared behind his eyes. For a moment, he swore he could smell burning flesh, hear shrieking metal.
He flopped back against the pillow, dragging it over his face, but the darkness only made the memory sharper. The numbers, the alarm, Scott shouting at him to move .
There was no way he was getting back to sleep in here. Not after that.
Alan slid out of bed, bare feet touching cool tile. The villa was hushed in the small hours, the moonlight pouring in soft strips through the blinds. The hall stretched ahead of him, all familiar shadows and creaks. It felt the same as it had when he was younger, sneaking out after a nightmare or a storm rattled his windows, his feet carrying him to the one place that always made him feel safe.
Halfway down the hall, a noise rolled out from Virgil’s room.
Alan stopped. Blinked.
The snores were so loud the floor seemed to vibrate. Deep, guttural, rattling bursts that rose and fell like a chainsaw chewing through steel. Another snort came, sharp and violent, like Thunderbird Two trying to take off with a clogged intake.
By the time he reached the farthest door, his chest had already eased a little.
Scott’s room was shadowed, the curtains cracked enough to spill a line of silver across the bed. His dad lay on his good side, broken shoulder carefully propped with pillows, his brow faintly creased even in sleep.
Alan slipped in quietly and tugged up the blanket just enough to slide underneath. The mattress dipped, but Scott didn’t stir. The warmth was immediate, the familiar scent of clean cotton and aftershave wrapping around him. Just like always. Safe.
The bed shifted a few minutes later, and a hoarse voice cut gently through the dark.
“…Alan?”
Alan froze. “…Yeah.”
Scott didn’t sound surprised. He never did. “Couldn’t sleep?”
Alan hesitated. “…Nightmare.” Then, with a faint smirk, “And Virgil snores like a jet engine. I think he’s setting off seismic sensors somewhere.”
Scott made a soft hum of thought. “Hm. That would explain the tremor warning on my tablet earlier.”
Alan gave him a look through the dark. “Are you sure that wasn’t your snoring?”
Scott turned his head slightly, feigning confusion. “My what?”
“Your snoring,” Alan pressed. “Could’ve been you all along.”
Scott’s expression stayed perfectly innocent. “Alan, I sleep perfectly quietly.”
Alan rolled his eyes. “Sure you do.”
Scott’s mouth twitched, but he let it go. Instead, he shifted closer, pulling the blanket higher over Alan’s shoulders with his good arm. His voice dropped into that soft, steady tone Alan had heard since he was little. “Get some rest, kiddo. You’re safe here.”
Alan’s chest finally loosened, the nightmare dissolving like fog. With his dad’s warmth steady beside him, the fear didn’t stand a chance.
Just before he drifted off, Scott’s voice came again, low and certain: “Love you, Alan.”
“Love you too, Dad,” Alan murmured, already halfway asleep.