Connectivity problems resolved with a much faster router and flat-screen TV thingie. Will edit in the morning, I promise.
3: Developments
Tracy Island, the mansion's grand residential suite, late morning-
Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward… Tracy (spoken and thought with always a slight hesitation before the last bit) had never appeared more beautiful. Though her formerly model-slim figure had filled out somewhat, Her Ladyship positively glowed; creamy skin, flowing-gold tresses, radiant health. Bad job about the morning sickness. Utter bore, really, but couldn't be helped. Came with the territory, as one might say; like torrid heat with Pacific islands.
As Penelope examined herself, turning this way and that, craning her head before her attiring room's full-length gilt mirrors, she took stock and made plans. No more light coloured clothing, the new Mrs. Tracy decided. Despite being charmingly spring-like (in a land with no seasons) they did tend to make one seem… larger. Penelope had no desire to resemble a brood mare. Thus, slimming attire, one child and then done. Jeff was a sweet, indulgent old darling, quite over the moon about her condition, and Penelope was tremendously fond of him. A terribly good thing, too, as such matches worked far better when there was genuine emotion involved. His five sons, however, were something of a bother. There was no sense in wasting a fine morning, however. Not with elegant clothes to be donned, and a perfect setting to choose for her portrait.
"You may enter," Her Ladyship announced, speaking to those who waited just out of sight beyond the servants' door.
"Yes, Milady," came the immediate response, spoken in a brisk, north-country accent. Three young women entered the room, led by Elspeth Morgan, her senior lady's maid; a solidly-built, grey-haired matron whose devotion quite matched that of Aloysius Parker, her driver.
With these two, Penelope had managed to retain her lands and title, 'acquiring' wealth enough to feign idleness and ease before others. Later, with the full connivance of her valued old servants, she'd placed herself in position to meet, charm and wed Jeff Tracy. And now, the salvaged Creighton-Ward estate was to have an heir.
As Elspeth and her trio of graceful assistants brushed, draped and arrayed Penelope, they reported bits of island gossip: which Tracy son had been featured in Paris Match… What that dreadful old harridan of a Victoria Tracy had said to Louis-le-Chef… Who among them had most recently dodged the awkward advances of young Alain… That sort of thing. Penelope nodded and smiled, but did not really listen. Instead,
'Richard Niles Thomas Creighton-Ward Tracy' she thought to herself, and (in the event that her little stranger came forth female) 'Elizabeth Millicent Grace Creighton-Ward Tracy'. The names brought a warm flush to her soft cheeks, the colour deepening when her handsome, excessively American husband strode through the doors and into Penelope's dressing room, scattering maids like small birds.
"Out!" he roared cheerfully, shooing Elspeth, Marie, Angelique and Gwenny away with waved arms and a sharply-snapped towel. "Beat it! She's flawless already, and I've waited long enough."
Elspeth stiffened angrily, but Penelope shook her head. Naturally, one must expect certain modes of behaviour from a wealthy, exuberant yank... and allow him frequent access. Unwillingly, miffed at the breech of propriety, Her Ladyship's servants departed the room.
"Hello, darling," she purred, stepping into Jeff's embrace. "Dreadfully sorry to have kept you waiting… I simply wished to present a pleasing appearance at breakfast."
Jeff chuckled and swept her up against him, tall and strong despite his sixty-odd years.
"As if you could do anything else but look good," he scoffed lovingly. "Both of you." For, of course, he included their child in his statement. "How's little Grant or Vicky-Lynn, this morning?"
To her credit, Penelope's smile did not falter (although something akin to 'over my dead body' shot through her mind). In a placid voice, she said,
"Our baby is progressing splendidly, Jeff; practically somersaulting at the sound of your voice."
A tiny lie, as she wasn't that far along, yet, but the notion made him happy, so where was the harm in it?
…And there was time, yet, to correct his disastrous, utterly common, name choices. Jeff's embrace tightened, rumpling a very expensive pink linen morning dress and mussing her long, golden hair.
"Penny," he mused hoarsely, whispering against the side of her head, "I can't wait. It's going to be wonderful to have a baby in the house. One I can be a real father to. I swear to God, Penny, this time I won't miss a moment. First word, first step, his baby teeth… I'll be there for everything. I can't tell you how happy I am for this chance, but if it takes a thousand years, I'll never stop trying. We're a whole family again, thanks to you."
Penelope smiled; all blue-eyed softness in his fierce-tender grasp. After all, there were worse ways that she might have acquired a fortune, and far less attentive men she might have attached herself to. So, when Jeff said,
"I love you,"
Penny replied, "And I you, darling. Forever."
And maybe, just a little, she meant it.
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Los Angeles, California, on a bright, sunny day (and out of the plane's bathroom, at last)-
Gordon was... y'know... an okay pilot. A little too cautious for headstrong, do-it-now Alan, but maybe he'd loosen up after a few days ashore. Anyways, Gordon brought the plane skimming down like a guy whose life depended on no mistakes, ever. You could hardly tell that his usual ride had ion-fueled rockets instead of a regular jet engine. Or that it could fly and submerge. (Pretty beastly, huh? Alan had spent some time researching WASP Skydiver craft, though he wouldn't admit it to Gordon.)
"Kinda rough landing," he said, shaking his blond head regretfully. "Budget cuts keeping your low-ranked butt confined to the ship or something, dude? Not getting enough practice out there?"
Gordon sighed. He ignored his brother long enough to respond to ground control's crisp,
"Tango Bravo Four-niner Beechcraft, exit runway left, earliest pilot discretion. Taxi to parking, good day."
With…
"Four-niner Beechcraft taxi t' parking. Aye, sir… Good day, that is." And then double clicked the mic, as well, just to be certain they'd heard. Afterward, while guiding his plane to the palm-lined taxiway, Gordon said,
"Boat, not ship, Alan. There're a good many differences between a surface vessel and the Mako, chief among them bein' mode of navigation."
"Like: clean and obvious, versus sneaky and bottom-dwelling?" Alan suggested brightly.
Had he not been taxiing a small aircraft off of a major runway, Gordon might have responded. But LAX was a terribly busy air- and spaceport, and he had to remain focused, or risk being landed upon by something very large and fast-moving. Fortunately, TinTin was present to smooth matters over. She leaned forward at once in a cloud of perfume and gentle admonishment, saying,
"Alain! It is unkind to tease Gordon so, when he has just now returned to us! We are on holiday. Besides, Alain, WASP does not 'sneak'. They watch for piracy and smuggling, and provide rescue to those in peril at sea."
"Yeah… blah, blah, blah," Alan grumped. He was still angry because a disguised WASP surface cruiser had once clocked him speeding in a no-wake zone, scanned and fined him. Five-hundred dollars! Like, okay, there was a such thing as over-kill, right? He'd learned his lesson; why beat the dead water-horse with a phone call to dad?
"They're sneaky," he repeated, refusing to back down.
TinTin shot him a reproving look, then turned her head to coo something warm, French and gooey at Gordon. Alan would have shifted his attention to Fermat, but the younger boy was back on the phone with his mother, who'd already called him, like, ten-million times. Dude! It was only a massive rock concert… at the new amphitheater… in landslide and earthquake-plagued California… without supervision. For real, what could possibly go wrong?
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Endurance Base, Mars, the west tunnel-
Just maybe, he hadn't handled things well. John didn't really have enough experience dealing with females to tell. He went over the conversation (everything he'd said and she'd replied) in his head; trying to parse meaning from gesture, tone and facial tics. But he might as well have set out to translate Linear-B. Words were one thing, but what ought to have been a straight-forward interpretation could be totally changed by a different tone, pursed lips or raised eyebrow. John didn't get it. He'd studied the matter; observed people in groups at their small talk, but still couldn't work out the nuances that everyone else seemed to grasp without effort. Whatever, huh? Waste of time even to try, so instead, John walked.
The tunnel wasn't much higher than his head. Had he been wearing a hard-suit and helmet, John would have had a scant five inches clearance above, with less than a foot to either side. Cramped, but sensible, as wider tunnels were harder to scan for leaks. The floor was polished flat, but rather gritty, and the curving grey walls still bore obvious drill-marks.
There were square yellow light panels overhead, spaced every three meters, and tuned close to Earthly sunlight. The effect was supposed to be soothing, but several people complained that it made them long for home. Not John. Most things were fairly new and interesting to him; Mars no more alien than the world outside his "school" had been. He could've done without the smell, though. That many people living together in close quarters, with generated air and iodized water, made a definite sensory impact. Got a little thick in there, actually. He'd gotten used to it after awhile, along with the constant noise of pumps, machinery and settling rock. Those weren't new, and didn't often bring themselves to his attention. Something else did, though, on this particular think-walk.
Three fast impressions cut through John's reverie: motion, a small, furry body, and chirruping 'miaou'. Taken together, this equaled Bendix, the colony's adopted cat (and additional smell-source). He'd jumped ship three transports ago, and was now officially theirs, associating with whoever would feed him. Pretty often, that was John.
The scrawny yellow feline stepped from a side passage with lifted head and fanned whiskers, mewling a soft greeting.
"Hey, yourself" John replied, halting to talk. "How's life on four legs?"
He'd saved a piece of soy sausage from breakfast, and brought it out now, still bundled in vacuum-pack plastic. Bendix danced forward at the sight of food, tail in the air like a swaying exclamation point. But when John unwrapped and presented the greyish patty, the cat sniffed, turned around and made a big show of kicking dirt over it.
"No," John admitted, "I didn't like it, either. There's more of those cheese cubes from home back in my quarters, though. You can have some of those, instead."
A sure bet, since Bendix enjoyed cheese, especially Colby and cheddar. John stooped to pick the cat up, which is why he was still in the tunnel when Dr. Bennett came hurrying out from the same passage that Bendix had used. Not her usual route. He couldn't think why she'd taken it, unless, maybe…
"John! Hi," she said, pulling up short at the sight of civilian consultant and purring feline. Linda was out of breath. She'd had almost to run after delivering her report to Dr. Fields, dodging other meetings in her rush to find John. Only Kim Cho had received a confusingly swift explanation. but not much of one.
"Hey, doctor," John Tracy replied. Because she gave him time to process her presence, he added, "It's nice to see you again."
Linda worried, then, about what she looked like. About whether she'd messed up her hair or her un-retouched lipstick. For confidence, she reached out her arms for the cat, which was willing enough to be transferred. Then, after nuzzling Bendix, she panted,
"You were… saying something about a… marathon?"
Quipped John, with a very brief smile,
"From the way you're breathing, doctor, it sounds like you've already run one."
Well, damn him for joking at a time like this! When her heart was pounding, and she wasn't even sure why she'd come out here; why she absolutely had to proceed with their conversation and maybe-date. Because that's what he'd been suggesting, wasn't it? A star-gazing date?
"Running is healthy… and I didn't get a chance to answer, when you asked if I wanted to watch you find stars."
"Deep-sky objects," he corrected, taking back the cat (and coming another step nearer). "Not stars. Some of the Messier objects are galaxies, some nebulae or open clusters. But… yeah. I mean, if you'd like, I could show you. Be a long night, though. You don't have to stay for it all."
Linda Bennett was a professional; a physician and astronaut. She was also too much alone, not having been especially important to anyone for quite some time. Playing another round of 'take-back-the-cat-and-step-closer', she seized poor Bendix away from John Tracy.
"I'm off-duty for most of tomorrow. Mike's got it, with some coverage from the auto-doc and our physician's assistant. I'm not likely to get called in... but in any case, that's why there's coffee."
"No," John said, stepping forward, "there's recycled mud."
They were both, at this point, holding Bendix, who didn't much like it. The cat squirmed free with a disgusted MrrOWrrr, picked up his grit-coated sausage and left. Now there was less than six inches between John and Linda, and no cat at all.
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Back on the island, meanwhile, Virgil Tracy, Jeff and Brains took turns listening for emergencies, and testing their brand-new alert system. You see, if International Rescue was ever to get off the ground, they would have to hear everyone, anywhere, who needed their help. They'd have to arrive in force, and in time; a matter of money, dedication and high-tech vehicles.