Upgrade

Chapter 1

John woke as the vibrating pad under his pillow alerted him to the proximity alarm. He jumped up and headed for his console. Another alarm went off. John looked at his viewer, thinking there must be space debris. This was not an unusual occurrence, and Thunderbird 5 was well equipped with plasma-cored deflectors to deal with it. But there was nothing on the screen.

"That's odd," said John. He ran several diagnostics but could find nothing wrong with the system. A third alarm sounded. It was as if something was coming towards the satellite from all sides. John reached for his microphone.
"Base from Thunderbird 5." All he got was static. He was still trying to call base when the station became bathed in a pale blue light.

"What the hell?" John went to the windows. There was a wide beam of light heading toward Thunderbird 5. As it approached, the light became more intense, and burned John's eyes. He shut them tightly. The satellite began to shudder as it came closer, and soon John was being shaken from the floor. He sensed an impending impact, and hit the deck. The collision threw him to the ceiling, and he was unconscious when he hit the ground.

John groaned as he woke. The emergency lights were on, bathing the station in a dim glow. John rubbed his eyes to try and adjust to the low contrast. He was lying in a large pool of blood. He felt the back of his head, and found a deep gash. Not feeling able to stand, he crawled along the ground and hauled himself up to the console. As he leaned back, he felt a stabbing pain in his neck.

"Base from Thunderbird 5!" He said urgently. There was no answer, and dropped down to the underside of the machine to see smoke coming from the service hatch. He prised it off with his thin fingers. More smoke erupted from the hole, making John cough. He could just see flames inside. The fire extinguisher was on the top of the console and John had to drag himself up again. Now his head was hurting him very badly, and his vision was losing clarity. He took the extinguisher and used it on the fire. It was quickly put out, but the resulting plume of carbon dioxide choked John and he crawled to the other side of the room to recover. When he had his breath back, he surveyed the rest of the room and found a great deal of the equipment unserviceable. Thankfully life support and gravity were still functioning. John was slightly relieved. He could not call base, but he knew that they would miss him if he did not call in, and so had only to wait for rescue. But with blood now pouring from the back of his head, and the tremendous pain between his temples, he wondered if he could hold out long enough. He crawled into the bathroom.

"Thunderbird 5 from base. Thunderbird 5 from base." Jeff Tracy stared intently at the portrait of John on the wall of the Tracy Island lounge.

"Still no luck, Father?" said Scott, peering around the door.

"No, Scott. He said he was tired and getting an early night. He worked really hard while we were putting out that bushfire."

"Yeah. He was coordinating for almost 3 solid days."

"I thought he might just be sleeping. But we've been out of contact for 18 hours. Something could be wrong. You'd better get up there, Scott."
"Sure thing, Father. I'll get Alan."

Scott collected Alan from the swimming pool, and they returned to the lounge to sit on the sofa that would take them to Thunderbird 3. Jeff flicked the switch, and they were away.

"What are you wearing?" said Scott to Alan, in transit.

"What? It was the first thing I could find!" replied Alan. He was wearing Virgil's running jumpsuit, emblazoned with a large 'V.'

"He's going to kill you, you know." snickered Scott.

"Yeah. I know." said Alan, looking down at his feet.

Alan flew Thunderbird 3 to Thunderbird 5 perfectly, although Scott could not resist the urge to backseat drive. They failed to raise John on any frequency during their journey, and had become increasingly worried. John had really always been the Tracy brother to worry about. Scott responded to worry with vigilant concentration; Alan responded by joking around. They both understood the other's way of dealing with things.

Thunderbird 5 was eerily dark when they entered. They proceeded with caution, and edged slowly through the airlock into the main communications room.

"What the hell happened to this place?" said Alan, looking at the damage.

"John?" called Scott. "John?"

There was no response.

"John," called Alan. "We brought your whiskey and hookers!"

"Ssh!" Scott admonished him. "John? There!"

They could both hear whimpering coming from the crew quarters. They moved around the bulkhead towards the source of the sound. As they came closer, Scott drew his sidearm. Alan looked at him; they understood each other. Perhaps there were others on the station.

Scott immediately sheathed his weapon when he caught sight of John. He was huddled in the corner of the bathroom, with a blood-soaked blanket pulled around his shoulders. He was shaking uncontrollably and his teeth were chattering.

"John? What's wrong?" Scott asked, and put a hand on John's neck. John shrieked in pain, and held his arm to him. Scott noticed a deep, circular wound in his neck, and frowned. He knelt beside John, and placed his hand on his pale, sweaty forehead.

"You have a fever, John. You're sick." He said, softly. As he looked more closely at his brother, Scott saw that his teeth were pink; tinged with blood.

"Have you been throwing up, John?" he asked. John nodded, and Scott sighed. When John had chemotherapy when he was 7, he had vomited so much that the stomach acid had scarred his throat. He must have aggravated it. The saliva on his lips turned bloody and dripped down John's chin. Scott wiped it with his handkerchief.

"Hey, you're okay kiddo." Scott smiled. Then he looked around and nodded to Alan. Alan understood Scott's expression again, and he went to contact base.

"System's down, Scott."

"Huh?"

"Comms have blown, and one of the solar panels is gone."
"Gone?"

"Yeah, it's just not there. Must've been ripped right off."
"Can you fix it?"

"I'll bring back up online, and I can fix comms. I'm sure there's a spare panel round here somewhere. Won't take long. You can go." Alan went about his work.

"John, what happened?" Scott asked. John did not answer. Scott smiled at him. "Let me see your head, buddy."

John winced as Scott poked at his head wound, and covered it with a field dressing.

"Okay, buddy," said Scott. "I'll take you home. Come on." He was going to help John walk to Thunderbird 5, but when he stood him up he was so unsteady that Scott had to carry him. John was slight and only weighed 140 pounds, so Scott had little difficulty lifting him.

"No more cake for you, Johnny boy!" joked Scott.

As Scott carried John into the communications room, Alan appeared from the airlock. He had changed into his International Rescue uniform.

"I called Dad. They're waiting for you, with the sickroom ready."

"Thanks, Alan."

"I left Virgil's jumpsuit in the lounge. Just slip it into the wash, will you? He'll never know."

Scott smiled in agreement and took John aboard Thunderbird 3. He laid John down on a couch, and covered him with his blanket. He was still shivering, and his eyes seemed glazed. His fever was raging. Scott stroked his hair and felt his wrist for a pulse. It was racing. Scott paused for a moment, wondering whether he should stay with john and try to help him, or just go back to the island as fast as he could. He decided on the latter, and went in the elevator up to the cockpit. He set off for home, and all the way he talked to John through the communication system. John gave no reply.