Edited. Many thanks for your comments and reviews.

4: The Other Side

In Southern California, surrounded by golden sunlight and rolling hills-

Scott Tracy was in a hurry, so he put off ordering that sports car. For now, at least, the helicopter was a better choice. He might have been expecting perfection from his impromptu vacation… instant, dramatic results… but that's not what he got.

John wasn't "normal" yet, and perhaps never would be. Things concerned him that Scott wouldn't have blinked an eye at. Take aircraft, for instance. The blue-decaled Tracy Aerospace helicopter idled on St. Raphael's rooftop helipad, engines whining like a mulish toddler. Literally hundreds of times, Scott Tracy had sped from his penthouse or meeting room to a waiting chopper, ducking low to avoid the scything rotors, hand shielding his face from wind-borne debris. For him, easy as stepping into the garage to chose the day's car.

John balked, though, confused by the noise and the strangeness. Scott had to remind him of a carnival helicopter ride they'd taken as kids, before his brother would venture from St. Raphael's rooftop lounge to the sunny, air-swirling helipad.

"You've already flown in one, remember? At the state fair in Cheyenne? You sat on mom's lap, up front. I was with granddad in the back. The flight cost fifty dollars, and grandma said we were all crazy."

But John hesitated, pausing just outside the glass double doors. Scott wanted to shove his brother along, but instead was forced to be patient. Lowering his voice to avoid attracting attention, he said,

"Look, I promise you, John, it's perfectly safe. Better than a carnival ride, anyhow. If you like, I'll show you the maintenance log."

That maintenance log offer did the trick, though John cost his aggravated brother thirty minutes of valuable time while he looked the thing over (and pointed out that a set of bolts in the tail rotor were two days past ideal replacement). The company pilot was a young fellow named Landon Maugham. He had spiky brown hair, glasses and a thin, wise face.

"Thanks, Mr. Tracy," he said to John, when the chopper's repair issue was brought to his attention. "I'll get right on that, and rip my lazy mechanics a new bunghole. Stuff like that doesn't get caught, people die. Want to see the flight controls, sir?"

Another twenty minutes wasted. Or maybe not, since John got comfortable enough to actually take a ride. Finally. At this rate, San Francisco might as well have been Mars. Scott wasn't on schedule or happy, but John was well enough occupied. He began learning to fly; growing accustomed to noise, vibration, dips and autorotation. More importantly, he figured out the relationship between manipulated controls and his own position in space.

There was a lot to see on the way. Landon pointed out the sights as they flew, warming to tour guide duty like a natural. As the helicopter swooped low past a graceful red bridge, he nodded and said,

"That's the Golden Gate Bridge, Mr. Tracy. I don't care what they say about that big Asian mega-span. This one's…"

"John."

The pilot glanced away from his flight controls at the blond young man in the seat beside his.

"Sir?" Landon questioned.

"John," his employer's brother repeated, barely loud enough to hear over wind, engine and rotor noise.

Landon cast a worried look over his right shoulder at Scott Tracy, who shrugged and nodded. In this particular instance, first names were okay. Sure felt funny, though.

Scott tipped the pilot very generously, once they landed on the roof of San Francisco's Hotel Nikko.

"Thank you for spending so much time with my brother," he said, giving Landon a five-hundred dollar handshake. "You didn't have to do that."

The pilot took off his glasses and polished them on the hem of his blue uniform jacket.

"No problem, sir. I've got a five-year-old niece who never makes eye contact or lets anyone touch her. She hasn't learned to talk yet, but… y'know… something good could happen for Chelsea, too. Just like it has for John… that is, for Mr. Tracy."

"Absolutely," Scott agreed. "Ever heard of a guy named Gerald Craft? He's a doctor back at St. Raphael's, and…"

So it went. Whether the referral would help or not, Scott had no way to tell. He could set up and fund a first round of appointments, though. And he could hope.

The lovely hotel was a piece of modernist, Japanese elegance with broad balconies, computerized walls and Zen furnishings. The view of San Francisco Bay was incomparable, and Scott stayed there whenever business brought him to town. He'd engaged a suite, as usual, but this time actually needed the extra rooms.

John was restless, unable to get comfortable in so disorientingly different a place. Nothing was where he expected it to be, and nothing looked the same as at "home". Nothing but the television… which had been programmed into the wrong wall. Scott had no choice but to rearrange furniture, recruiting the hotel staff, his body guards and Anita to remake Hotel Nikko's presidential suite in the image of a far-off care facility. Only then did John settle down.

Needless to say, Scott was late and out of sorts by the time he reached the chosen, neutral-ground conference site, the Bayside Tower West. Another fifteen minutes, and the Boeing team would simply have cancelled negotiations. It took all of Scott's diplomacy (and Anita's… and Albert Jenkins') to smooth their injured feelings. It also took upping his original offer by fifteen percent, but eventually, all was forgiven, leaving Tracy Aerospace and Boeing International to gather round the table and come to terms.

All that afternoon, Scott listened to contract wording and viewed Power Point slides. What he did not do was concentrate, because…

Damn, it really was a beautiful day, out there. Far too nice to be trapped indoors with a lot of lawyers and accountants. He had a sort of date planned, with broadcast news' female Jack the Ripper, and Scott was starting to look forward to their meeting.

During a very long liquid asset discussion, Scott wondered what John was up to. Still watching TV? Or had Mitch succeeded in teaching him to play poker? And what about the pilot's niece, Chelsea? Would the treatments his brother had received help her, as well?

Looking around the boardroom at a pinch-faced swarm of negotiators, Scott suddenly longed to be somewhere else. God, how long had it been since he'd flown his own plane? Gone to the shore? How long since he'd thought about anything other than cash flow and stock reports? Years, Scott decided. In his own way, he'd been just as buried as John.

Great. Wonderful. He had a full-blown mid-life crisis coming on, and he wasn't yet thirty. Al Jenkins brought him back to the present with a quick nudge, delivered while reaching for another bottle of Perrier. The look on Jenkins' classic WASP face was deeply reproving. He was old money, Hyannis Port royalty, and dad's representative on the negotiating team. A window popped up on Scott's laptop screen a few moments later.

"Pay attention, old fellow," read Jenkins' swift message. "One-hundred percent focus until the ink has dried and the last hand's been clasped. Only way to do business."

Right. Focus… Fortunately for everyone present, Scott had a team of crack troops handling most of the dickering. Otherwise, his inattention would have cost TA billions. But at session's close, he felt like he had on the last day of school, back in Kansas. Dodging Albert Jenkins, he felt like he'd escaped.

Outside the Bayside Tower, Scott did something incredibly risky. At street level, just like a regular guy, he caught the trolley back to his hotel, clinging to a strap and breathing sea air along with Anita Clifton, five nervous, hawk-eyed bodyguards, and a few puzzled tourists. San Francisco was a truly beautiful city, Scott discovered, and all he'd ever done was fly in for business meetings and then rocket right out again.

He arrived at the hotel in an expansive, time-to-relax mood, only to find that John and Mitch were gone. Sending his remaining guards out to radio their missing comrade and canvass the hotel, Scott double and triple checked every room in his spacious suite. Nothing. Anita rang both Mitch and Scott, messaging the one and checking the other's voice mail. Sensible woman, Anita.

"Mr. Tracy, it's all right," she told him, just as the bodyguard steered John back in through the hall door. "They stepped out for a…"

"Hot dog, sir," Mitch admitted, reddening. "I was ordering room service, just like you said, and come to find out that John's never eaten off a hot dog cart. So, I thought… I mean… according to the concierge, there was one practically right outside."

Mitchell Falk sighed like a man defeated, and then he simply stopped trying to explain.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Tracy," he said, but Scott wasn't listening. "I shoulda known better."

The older Tracy had gone directly to John, who stood by the doorway holding a foil-wrapped hotdog that he hadn't yet sampled.

"You okay?" Scott asked him.

John had few expressions and fewer gestures. He would have to relearn how to nod, shrug his shoulders, or laugh. He could use pictures to communicate, though, or pull up a TV scene that matched what was happening inside. Sometimes he even could talk.

The television had been muttering along quietly to itself. Now it grew louder and brighter, its pixels expanding in number to occupy half of a wall. The scene displayed was a funny one; part of a show about pratfalling tourists in London. Several Bobbies were chasing them across Trafalgar Square past the Landseer Lion, as they'd somehow offended the locals.

Scott's shoulder and back muscles unknotted, and he allowed himself to relax. After all, John had been promised real food.

"Try the hotdog," he said. "Mitch is right. They're good, especially with beer and cheese fries."

So much for prime rib and Cobb salad. Anita Clifton sidled up to Scott, just as he finished speaking. Very quietly, she told him.

"There was a message left on your phone, Mr. Tracy. Falk did report where they were going, but an equipment glitch seems to have cut transmission to the other guards. Nothing that can't be repaired, though."

Scott nodded, too relieved to be angry, and also too hungry.

"Tell you what," he said to the worried bodyguard, pulling a hundred dollar bill from his wallet. "We're going to need a few more of those, plus whatever they've got to drink that complements processed meat."

Mitchell Falk accepted the money, along with a twenty from Anita, who'd pretty much saved his career.

"Will five do, Mr. Tracy?" he asked their employer.

"Make it six," Scott smiled, throwing his grey suit jacket onto a nearby chair. "Some of us are hungry."

_________________________________________

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sleeping turned out to be more of an issue, even, than food. How the hell was Scott supposed to know that John preferred dark blue cotton sheets… and that he wouldn't lie down on anything else? Between sheet hunts, and getting his travel prescriptions filled, the concierge desk got an Olympic-sized workout.

All this late-night chaos might have been worth it had John actually slept, but he didn't. The only thing his brother did (all ten times that Scott woke up to check on him) was watch TV on half the screen, while playing several video games at once on the quartered other half. Strange… but at least he was quiet.

In the morning, Scott ordered up a silver Porsche convertible, and they drove east to the Tracy Aerospace building. Got breakfast at a McDonald's drive-thru on the way, because John was now fascinated with paper-wrapped convenience food.

The line behind them was an impatient maelstrom of honking horns and flashing lights by the time John finally made his selection: Egg McMuffin, hash browns and orange juice (texted to Scott via cell phone). But there was no rushing John. Scott could only hope that dad wasn't expecting punctuality… and that Albert Jenkins the Fourth could begin negotiations without him, because Scott had a lot on his hands.

They'd parked the car and were in the Tracy Building's executive elevator, headed for the top, when John spoke again. His words were quiet and halting, sounding nothing at all like the voice of a four-alarm pain-in-the-ass.

"Dad. What if he…"

Maintaining proper elevator etiquette, Scott regarded his brother's reflection in the polished bronze doors, rather than looking straight at him. Didn't matter. John's head was down, anyway, blond hair brushing the collar of his polo shirt and hiding his face. Scott doubted that his brother would notice if he stared like a pop-eyed goldfish.

"What if he what?" Prompted the dark-haired young man. "Dies of old age before we get there? Decides to take the family business away from his clearly incompetent son?"

Too many questions, worded too strangely for John. Instead of answering directly, he messaged Scott's phone again.

'What if he doesn't want me back?'

Scott turned to stare at him.

"What the hell kind of question is that?" He demanded. "Of course dad wants you back! We all do! I was on the phone with Virge while you spent all morning in the bathroom. He's hopping a flight from Denver tomorrow, right after final exams. Gordon's coach has him chained to a lane divider, apparently, but he's coming, too, just as soon as the season's over. Alan never needs an excuse to cut school. I'm surprised he's not here, already. And, uh… if everything works out, and you're willing to extend this vacation, John, I can take you to see grandma, out on the island. She's missed you, buddy. We all have."

The elevator slid to a gentle, sighing halt. Chimes sounded, and the doors opened. Scott got another text message, though, so he didn't immediately step through.

'He yelled a lot. Before.'

Scott shrugged.

"You were seven years old and too smart for your own good, John. Everyone who knew you was pulling their hair out by the roots. And for some reason, they all thought you'd listen to me."

He reached over to touch his brother's shoulder. This time, Scott left it a little longer, and John wasn't so quick to flinch away.

"Everything's gonna be fine, John. I promise. Dad's here because he wants to be. He's here to see you."

"Okay," John decided aloud, believing him.

They stepped through the elevator doors and into an opulent, chrome-and-glass lobby lined with video adverts extolling the latest in TA technology. On top of all that, there were LED floor tiles which changed color whenever the lobby's mood music switched tempo. Glitzy as hell, but Scott had never much liked it, and John simply froze.

While Scott was trying to come up with a way to quietly reassure his brother, they became aware of a commotion at the receptionist's desk. Somebody was trying to pass off a wrapped package, which the wizened receptionist (per company policy) steadfastly refused to accept without an itemized manifest.

"I'm terribly sorry, sir," she snapped at the man, "but it is against Tracy Aerospace guidelines for me to accept a civilian-delivered parcel."

Especially one shaped like that. The would-be giver rolled his eyes. Hard to tell their shade at this range, but his hair was sandy and thinning, and he'd matched his clothing styles like a rodeo clown.

"It isn't a pipe bomb," the man grumbled. "I prefer much heavier ordnance, when setting out to kick ass."

Immediately, the Tracy's scandalized receptionist buzzed security. Scott stepped in before the situation could devolve any further.

"Wait! Miss… uh… Meriwether! It's okay! He's fine, trust me!"

She didn't believe that, of course, but Scott Tracy was in charge, and the room possessed many recording devices. On his own head be it, etc.

Giving Scott a brief, frosty nod, Meriwether said,

"Understood, sir. He's yours, suspicious parcel, and all."

The man grinned, took back his unwanted box, and then strode right over to Scott and John. He had a fast, determined walk, despite being not very tall. Pete McCord, astronaut, family friend and general gadfly.

"Pete!" Scott laughed, clapping a big hand to the older man's shoulder. "It's great to see you, but could you please not harass my staff?"

The other man's eyebrows lifted.

"Harass? Her ass meant nothing to me. Too scrawny."

Scott covered his very red face with one hand, mentally calculating how big a raise he'd have to offer Miss Meriwether to keep her from suing the company.

"I love my job," he mumbled, while McCord turned to regard John.

"Hey there, Junior," said Pete, extending the wrapped box. "Remember me?"

John looked at the oblong parcel.

"This is a present."

"Damn right," McCord agreed easily, smiling a gap-toothed smile. "I've got sources, here and there, and one of them said you were out of the hospital. So, I figured I'd drop something by. Or would have, if the Crypt-Keeper, over there, hadn't pulled rank on me. Open it."

John obeyed, moving as though he had to talk himself through each separate act. The paper was royal blue and decorated with NASA meatballs. It tore easily, once he recalled what to do with it. Inside was a two-foot long mockup of an Ares-Orion rocket, the kind that had carried Jeff Tracy and Pete McCord to the Moon. There was also a silver astronaut's pin, tacked to a square of white cardboard. John examined both gifts very carefully, noting things that others would not; thinking of past launches, the family viewing area and a very good friend.

'Yeah, Pete," he said, looking up. "I remember you."