Hi, guys! Figured it was time to return to the main story, after having fun with Interlude. Thank you so much to all those who read and reviewed that one. Bow Echo, Tikatu, Whirl Girl and Akimakel, I value your comments and advice. Hugs!

Thunderbirds Are Go: Firestorm

1

Gran Roca Ranch, in Wyoming Territory-

Better yet, Uncle Lee had turned up, flying in before dinner with a case of beer and a brand-new basketball. There was a half-sized court out back, that Granddad had put in for them; pouring concrete for the floor, and using treated-wood poles and metal hoops for the goals. Back in the day, chores and schoolwork finished, livestock seen to, the older boys had spent a whole lot of time out there.

Scott was probably the best player, and did some of his deepest thinking while out shooting hoops, alone. Adding brothers and an audience just turned him competitive. (Also got all five boys and their laughing father out of the house, so that Grandma, Penny and Kayo could set things up for his party.)

Naturally, there were a few scrapes and bruises acquired. The boys and their dad played rough, and that golden late afternoon rang with the loud slap of ball on concrete, thudding collisions, curses and grunts, along with the ringing clash of those chain-link nets, whenever points were scored. Lee's whistle cut in from time to time, assigning penalty shots and (once) threatening to heave Jeff right out of the game. This made poor Brains terribly nervous, as he was the alternate, and seriously, very much, please Lord Krishna, did not wish to play. Especially not against Scott, John and Alan.

Those three were "skins", versus Jeff, Virgil and Gordon in sweat-drenched tee-shirts, and the game was tied. Max kept score and time, on a very large virtual holo-board. Did slow-motion replays, too, which was why Jeff, who'd indisputably tripped Scott to regain the ball, had nearly been tossed. They were very aggressive players, and Dr. Hackenbacker tended to last (on average) three minutes among them, before faking a leg cramp and tagging someone back in.

Fortunately, Captain Taylor settled for a blistering reprimand and a penalty shot, allowing Brains to keep a whole skin, and remain on his polished log bench. Out on the court, Scott grinned at his glowering father and sauntered up to the free-throw line, casually dribbling the ball as he went. The other players lined up on both sides, forming a sort of gauntlet. Scott, glistening with sweat, and needing a breather, anyhow… the old man played hard, as well as dirty… was aware that any minute now, Grandma would ring the dinner bell, ending the game.

One point was all that he needed to sew this one up. He caught John's eye, as he set up to make his throw. His brother didn't nod. Didn't have to. But he understood, and would go after the ball, if Scott somehow missed. Alan would break for the other side of the basket, meanwhile, seeking space for a clear shot. All three looked like they'd been dipped in glaze. Scott and John were tattooed with their Bird numbers. Alan was not.

Jeff snapped something about "hurrying the h*ll up" as Scott eased into position on the free-throw line, still gently bouncing that orange ball. He winked at his father as if to say, "make me", then lined up with the goal, took aim, breathed deeply, and shot.

The ball arced through the cold air, about as perfect a toss as Scott Tracy had ever made. Perhaps there was wind and birdsong, and maybe their grandmother rang that bell. Nobody noticed, as all eyes followed the ball, and bodies stood tense, prepared to explode. It swooshed up, over and down, again; nothing but net, barely stirring those hand-made chain links. Score.

Then, they heard Grandma's vigorous ring, and her strident voice, hollering,

"Come 'n get it, or you'll regret it! And wash up, first, or I'll heave it all out t' th' dogs!"

Scott, John and Alan high-fived, then (sort of) graciously congratulated the other team on their play, giving their brothers and Dad a fist-bump and "good game", as they filed past. Brains just sat at the sideline hugging Max, weak with relief.

"P- Perhaps next time," he mused, "they will, ah… will c- consider a chess tournament, M- Max? Once your b- brother is found and, ah… and r- returned, you would be able to p- play, as well, rather than j- just keeping score."

The robot appeared to consider this, then uttered a low warble, sounding skeptical. Unlike the Doctor, Max did not have much faith that Braman would be found, unless he wanted to be. His 'brother' had been aloof and superior from the start, possessing a great many processing upgrades. Max had been, frankly, beneath him. Brains' assistant would have mentioned these doubts, but then Captain Taylor sauntered over to offer a friendly hand-up.

"C'mon, Doc," he grinned. "Game's over, and no one's laid out. Wust danger y'r facin' now's th' crowd scene at supper. My advice, don't get between them boys an' their feed."

Brains got to his feet with a grateful sigh, returning Lee's broad smile.

"B- Believe me, Captain," he said, watching as Max shut down the projected score board and victory banner. High overhead, images of Scott, John and Alan faded to glittering pixels, then vanished altogether, leaving the sky to a few early stars and gathering fireflies. "I have no d- desire to spend further t- time in Medical. I sh- shall content myself with v- vegan options, and leave the meat to those who, ah… who p- prefer it."

Lee shook his head, not really comprehending, but willing to accept a few differences. Tossing the slim engineer a can of warm beer, he remarked,

"There y' go. Put a little spice in that rabbit food o' yours. Don't rightly know how a man c'n keep body an' soul together on beans an' hay, but more power to ya, Doc. Now, let's get inside, afore the little lady comes out here after us, with a shotgun."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Later on, in the house-

The catered dinner was a huge success; featuring steak, potato salad, barbecue beans and roast corn with mayonnaise. For dessert... featuring twenty-eight sparklers in lieu of birthday candles... was a big chocolate cake on which someone (Gordon or Kayo, most likely) had inscribed "over the hill", "old" and "senior citizen" with a sly finger. Scott laughed it off, being too tired, sore and happy to let a dumb stunt like that one upset his good mood.

Only if Mom and Granddad had been there, could his day have got any better. The ladies had decorated their beat-up old dining nook, and Parker had brought in more chairs. They still had to double up, though; Scott with Penny, his fiancée (and, God, it felt weird/ good to say that). Grandma grumpily shared a seat with Lee, while Kayo just hovered, as always.

There was the usual tense/ funny moment before Grace, because it was here, just about twenty-one years ago, that John had become responsible for the euphemism "F-A-B". At that infamous, long-gone dinner, Dad had closed their Grace, and instead of saying "Amen", with everyone else, four-year-old John had chirped, "F*ckin' A, Bubba". Just imitating Dad's favourite affirmation… but Jeff Tracy 'd had to clean up his act considerably, thereafter, and no one would ever let John live the incident down.

This time, the blessing went without a hitch, and everyone piled into the food, which was professionally catered, and plentiful. It was customary, at times like these, to talk about the honoree, and their best memories of him. These could be funny, sentimental or weird, depending on the speaker. Scott pretended to hate all the attention, but actually rather enjoyed catching these reflections of himself through everyone else's eyes.

"Hey, remember when…?" always led to something entertaining or instructive. Only thing nobody talked about was that business with the recent sim, because Scott wanted solid answers, before he'd admit what had happened.

John chose,

"Remember that time we broke Dad's old Mustang, trying to fix it for him, then ran away from home?"

Scott groaned and settled a bit lower in his chair, almost dislodging Penny, who'd been perched close beside him on the narrow wood seat.

"It'd be tough to forget," he admitted, hand at his face. "But in my own defense, I wouldn't have dropped that engine block, if you hadn't sneezed, Little Brother. You startled me, is all. I didn't mean to press the chain-release button."

John had barely touched his food, for some reason, leaving most of his plate for Kayo, who was working her way around the table. Now, the red-haired astronaut leaned back in his seat and said,

"We packed our bookbags with candy, cake and peanut butter, got our knives and flashlights, then took off for Lee's house, in Texas."

Taylor snorted through his big, greying mustache.

"Only woulda took you boys, what… three month's o' hard trekin' ta reach my place? If ya weren't et by a bear, or sumthin', first?"

Scott shook his head, blue eyes bright with rueful laughter.

"Actually, Sir, John slipped off a log bridge and went into the creek, about five miles from the house. Sprained his leg pretty bad, so we decided to head back, and face the music. Then, the flashlights crapped out on us…"

"…and some coyotes picked up our trail," John continued, adding, "No bears, though. Dad tracked us down pretty soon, after that."

Said their father, shaking away strong emotion,

"And a d*mn good thing, too. You'd have gotten lost, fallen into an old mine shaft, or… Well, I found you, first, and then you spent twenty-five years of future allowance buying another engine. That's what matters."

They hadn't realized, back then, just how much danger they'd been in, wandering alone and under-prepared through the wilderness. Now, it was an old family fable. Then, they might have been killed, or worse.

More stories followed; Gordon recalling the time that he'd tossed all of Scott's wet laundry into the freezer, the night before Dad's inspection… Virgil reminding them all how fourteen-year-old Scott had tried to climb back up to his bedroom window after sneaking out for a forbidden, late party… Kayo describing the whole pirate ship incident… and Alan telling how Scott had reduced a perfectly innocent frozen pizza to crinkled leather with a thirty-minute microwave setting. Max beeped something that everyone laughed at, once they'd worked out the Morse code. But Lee's stories were best of all, because he remembered camping trips and backyard adventures that Jeff tended to file away under "miscellaneous: family". Grandma told the one that she always did, for each of them; the story of her birthday-boy's arrival.

Penny laughed lightly at all of these old Tracy fables, but offered none of her own. She cherished very different memories of Scott, and those weren't for sharing. For her own part, the thought of being affianced, and of the daunting battle they'd face in getting a marriage permit, filled her with nervous thrill.

Say what you would of him, Jeff Tracy had broken the law in having so many children. Had gotten clean away with it, only because his activity had happened out in the territories, where WorldGov was weakest. The Council would not look kindly on any further attempt at adding new Tracys, she knew. Even a hero like the fabled Colonel was not above regulations. What if getting married, having children, meant that they'd have to remove to one of the colonies? Mars, or Proxima Centauri? What then?

Smiling and laughing along with everyone else, Penelope pressed her mate's broad, warm shoulder, her lovely face a perfect mask for troubled thoughts. Like Emma Kraft and possibly Ridley O'Bannon, she was going to have to answer these questions in the very near future, along with the man whom she loved.

Finally, presents were opened; most of which, Scott really liked. There was clothing, of course, plus a new rifle and several restaurant gift cards, along with an online cooking class registration (ha, very ha). The cake was amazing, being chocolate-mint, his favourite. Only, the pilot… now twenty-eight years old and headed for his declining years… got hardly a mouthful before all the trouble started.