A minor, one-word edit.

7: Arrangement

Tracy Island-

Scott left his brothers and TinTin, determined to wrest control of a very odd situation. His father, who was quite wealthy and powerful enough to have almost never heard the word 'no', had apparently decided to create a rescue organization.

One for the supermarket tabloids, that... even if he hadn't press-ganged Scott, John and Virgil into service, testing his futuristic aircraft and rescue vehicles.

In the long, jarring, fifteen-minute walk from garden bench to sickroom, Scott reasoned out what he wanted to say, and why. Peeling layers of emotion away like bits of fragile mica, he struggled to get at the facts. If only he weren't so damned nervous!

Since the death of their mother, meetings with Dad had come to take on the aspect of military fitness interviews; of three young heirs being paraded before the king and given occasional approving nods (or, in John's case, a heavily red-lined Article 15).

At the big double doors to his father's sickroom, Scott paused. He wiped his palms on the legs of his pants, then knocked once, opened the left-hand door, and walked right in. This time, he would not be kept waiting like a damn insurance salesman.

At first, the grand, light-filled room appeared deserted. The bed was mussed, but empty, his father's phone and laptop side-by-side with the stacked remains of his failed meeting agenda. Then, a side door opened, and Jeff Tracy came hobbling painfully forth; from the bathroom, evidently. His face was set in grim, craggy lines, and he looked as determined as Scott must have, forcing himself up the walk and back to the house.

Scott sighed, mentally tore up his script, and walked over. Physical pain at that level was a shared bond; one they might not discuss, but couldn't ignore. Without a word, he took his father's arm on the broken-leg side, and supported Jeff's limping retreat. His father smelled of hand soap and cigars, and (injured or not) seemed anything but weak.

The bed was mechanized; a fully-equipped hospital berth cleverly disguised as a high-end antique. Right now it was lowered nearly to the floor, allowing Jeff simply to ease himself onto the adjustable mattress.

Scott helped the wounded man to swing his legs up and over, then pulled the blankets back into place. It felt very, very odd; very unaccustomed. His father (Air Force officer, astronaut and CEO) never needed help. Not from his sons, at any rate.

To give them both some think time, Scott turned to the nightstand, took the glass of tepid water he found there, and went to the marble bathroom to pour it out. Deep breath… then back to the bedside.

There was a silver pitcher on the nightstand, dewed with condensation up to the level of the water within. He poured his father another glass, and held it forth. Ice cubes clinked. Silhouetted against the glass-brick wall, his father's head tipped back as he finished the water. Meanwhile, slowly, the bed rose, becoming once more almost a throne.

At last, Jeff Tracy handed over the glass, looked his oldest son in the eye and said,

"Well?"

Not the easiest of openings…

Scott set the glass down and squared his shoulders. The suit jacket and tie were gone, left behind on a garden bench. In just a rumpled shirt and trousers, his polished shoes now rock-scuffed and muddy, he felt ill-prepared. Still, he might never get another such chance to say what was on his mind. In the face of all this turmoil, even his back pain had faded to a dull throb.

"Yes, Sir. Thank you. We've been talking things over and, um… we've got a few questions for you. Some requests."

Jeff smoothed out his bed covers. Much like John, when thinking, he liked to tidy things up.

"Fire away. Let's hear the list of demands."

"Yes, Sir," Scott nodded. The lump in his gut forced a sudden return to the script.

"It, uh, seems to me that one of my jobs, if I'm to be your 'field commander', is to serve as a go between, passing directives from headquarters to the troops. At Kunsan, I was a wing leader. The colonel told me, and I told my pilots. An outfit like the one you propose needs good communications, Sir. No misunderstandings or personality conflicts allowed, because those things damage objectivity and cripple the mission. So… you talk to me; let me talk to them."

Scott was surprised to realize that his heart was thudding, and that his hands were icy where they pressed against his pants legs… but more surprised still when his father actually agreed.

"Right, then. Consider yourself a wing leader here, as well. And tell your brother…"

(He was referring to John.)

"…that I meant what I said, but that maybe there was a more effective way to phrase it, and that I'm… certain he's learned his lesson, and will use better discretion in the future. Just… add something appropriate to wrap it up."

Scott cocked his head.

"Like: I'm sorry?" he suggested, bracing himself.

Oddly, though, there came no explosion.

Jeff looked down, seeming all at once terribly exhausted. When he returned his gaze to Scott's, some of the flint and steel had gone.

"Sure. If you think it'll help."

There was an awful lot of turbid, angry water under that particular bridge, and the floodgates showed no sign of closing.

"Next item on the agenda?" Jeff prompted, when the silence between them had dragged well past comfort.

Scott nodded once more. This one would (hopefully) prove simpler.

"I… we've got another request, Sir. We'd, um… like to have Grandma brought to the island. For one thing, she's by herself at the ranch, and that's not safe; for another, she's too damn stubborn to slow down and take care of herself, now that Granddad's gone… And, besides, somebody's got to teach Kyrano how to cook."

His father snorted.

"The Cordon Bleu Culinary Arts Academy just isn't good enough for you three?" he asked, smiling.

Scott smiled back, saying,

"Not all the time, Sir; no. We're Americans. Every once in awhile, we've got to have peanut-butter-and-jelly, mashed potatoes with lumps, or a hot dog."

Jeff winced, less over his sons' preferred menu than the thought of facing his tiny, sharp-tongued mother. Obviously, he was now going to be spending a great deal less time on the island.

"She'll be here by Thursday," he sighed. "Next?"

Scott shifted position. Standing for long periods of time was uncomfortable, as was his upcoming, difficult-to-frame question.

"Yes, Sir. I… was wondering, in light of this International Rescue idea of yours, if mom's death had any…"

"Stop." Jeff Tracy did not raise his voice. He didn't have to. Grim as an executioner, he said,

"Scott, I've heard you out. I'll let you 'translate' for me, and I'll even have your grandmother brought here, to provide you with a sense of home… but I'll be damned if I'm going to justify myself. My reasons are my own, and they're going to stay that way. Now… you can be part of this, or not, but I won't have my motives questioned by you, or anyone else. End… of… subject. Understood?"

No, not really. He wanted to be able, just once, to sit down with his father as he had with John and Virgil; beer in hand, squinting at the sunset… and talk. No such luck, though. Not now, and maybe not ever.

"Understood, Father."

"Good. Tomorrow, I'll formally introduce my chief engineer, Doctor Hackenbacker, and we'll proceed from there. He'll be able to resolve most of your medical issues, and… trust me, Scott… together we're going to make a positive difference in the world. Maybe not openly, or the way other people would have us do it, but we're going to save lives. We're going to change things, starting with the people everyone else has given up on."

Scott nodded, allowing himself to believe that for once, his father's motivation wasn't money, or power. That, just maybe, Jeff Tracy was actually trying to do something good.

They shook on it (a firm, deal-making handclasp) and Scott left the room, headed for his first assignment in 'translation'.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Earlier, John Tracy had allowed himself to be led off by TinTin. He'd tucked the PDA in his jeans' pocket (not the one containing his flashdrives), too deep in thought to much feel the girl's guiding hand, or see the passing gardens. Like Scott… hell, all of them, really… he had a great deal on his mind.

The designs he'd glimpsed had been technically brilliant, incorporating advances of jaw-dropping potential… but he couldn't help wondering about the power source. To get up and away as quickly and quietly as outlined, those craft were going to need something a good deal kickier than av-gas or liquid hydrogen. Antiprotons, maybe…? With some kind of futuristic guidance and thrust system incorporating dark energy's antigravity effects?

The rest of the universe pin-holed even further, as John began seriously thinking. He tuned in and out of TinTin's bright chatter, catching the bits that darted past his equations like tropical fish through bleached coral. They were pretty notions, swift bubbles of laughter, at once annoying and entertaining.

This camera obscura world was ripped wide open when his hand was squeezed tight and TinTin whispered,

"From this point, John, we must proceed with the much greater caution and quiet."

Okay, he hadn't exactly been babbling…

They stood at the rear of the mansion, before a recessed steel door marked 'Service Entrance'. Two giant Bird-of-Paradise plants flanked the alcove, hiding the door from casual inspection.

"It would seem as though to bring one to the kitchens, n'est-ce pas? But, en fait, the door is open to les laboratoires du Professeur, in the… the 'way behind'."

"Back door," John supplied absently, half listening to the scrape of sword-shaped leaves on painted steel. "Unlocked, hopefully?"

"Toujours," she replied, smiling up exactly as though he deserved such trust. He had, of course, engaged in a certain amount of 'infiltration hacking' and 'social engineering'. He knew how to crack security physically, as well as online, though… for some reason… John found himself wanting to keep this from TinTin. She continued brightly,

"It is but a matter of being recognized, and we both have the good reasons in the house, no?"

No. But it was nice that she thought so.

"Straight on from here?" he asked, disengaging his hand to tap lightly at the top of TinTin's head.

She scrunched her face up, reasoning, maybe, that if she said 'yes', he'd have no further need of her services.

"Non. It is, in truth, not so simply accomplished, John. There are turnings to follow, et… and I have yet to tell where, precisely the computer was located. I will be very quiet, Monsieur," she added anxiously. "I am often prone to be seen and not heard, as becomes a young lady."

Maybe the big, dark eyes got to him, or maybe he just didn't feel like doing this alone. Whatever, TinTin was still with him when John Tracy entered the lab complex.

It reminded him rather of the generator site; bare concrete floors, fluorescent lighting and plenty of grim warning signs posted at each windowless door. Clearly, besides being business-like as hell, 'Hackenbacker' cherished his privacy.

They threaded the maze in ten short minutes, less like Theseus and Ariadne than a couple of waifish industrial spies. Further in, there were cameras, which he shut off at a suspiciously handy security console. Like, it all but featured a big, red 'off' button. Needless to say, John pulled out one of his flashdrives and applied a key-stroke retrieval program to find the actual cut-off protocol. Wasn't any damn off switch, or '23', either. Hackenbacker's stock rose considerably in John's eyes at the real password's complexity. Better… but still improvable. (As a few swift adjustments made obvious.)

Curious, the girl asked him,

"What is it that you are doing, John?"

Um…

"Just checking to be sure the security's adequate. There's a lot of valuable stuff, down here."

She nodded seriously, long dark hair swinging around her face and shoulders.

"It is good, then, that you have come to help ton pere and Doctor Hackenbacker keep safe their machines."

Another trusting glance and hand-squeeze. Damn. The girl was a first-class security system all by herself.

"Okay," he said, at the very next door. "This is as far as you go, TinTin. From here on, it's all me. See you outside."

If he'd expected childish pleading, he didn't get it. Instead, the girl gave him a swift, nervous hug.

"Very well, but I shall still be close, if distraction is required."

Right. In pretty near the same situation, Autumn Drew had dumped his ass. His damn girlfriend had left him to the feds. Meanwhile, TinTin wasn't just stepping up to the plate, she was swinging for the bleachers, ready to risk everything for someone she hardly knew, and wouldn't have liked much, if she had.

Very briefly, John touched her shoulder.

"Not necessary, TinTin… but thanks. I'm good."

One thing… though he didn't say so aloud… whatever John Tracy was worth as a friend, she'd more than earned. Someday he might even have a chance to prove it. Now, though, he had work to do. Shooing the girl away, John went on, alone.

He'd disabled all the door locks along with Hackenbacker's security cameras, allowing him to follow TinTin's hastily whispered directions with ease. Some of the rooms were enormous; vast chambers containing 3-D print machinery large enough to churn out a school bus. Others were packed with softly humming computer equipment or blackened video monitors. Interesting, all of it, and John had to several times remind himself that this was a social call, not business. Otherwise, he'd have found the nearest computer, pulled out a flashdrive and begun copying files. He'd always been curious, especially about that which others wanted to hide. …And there was certainly a lot of hidden stuff, here.

Fortunately, the right room showed up before his resolve broke. Hackenbacker's work bench was shoved against a far wall, exactly as TinTin had described; down to the coffee rings, haphazardly piled papers and overflowing waste basket.

Stepping cautiously further into the small lab, John shook his head. Engineers and scientists seemed to fall into two categories; tidy sorts (such as himself) and utter, complete slobs. Hackenbacker was evidently among the latter.

'By the coffee cup,' she'd told him. John drifted over to the Formica workbench, gazing at an unpleasant heap of chewed pencil stubs and deeply-stained mugs. Coffee cup? Which one?

He supposed (applying empirical methods) that he might try to determine which mordant caffeine puddle seemed freshest; the Einstein cup's, that in the periodic table mug or the king-sized black Princeton stein with the chipped handle. ….But from John's perspective they were equally, festeringly rank.

Unable to decide, he chose a spot equidistant to all three, and then set the PDA down amid yellowed and curling printouts. He'd started to draw a few papers over the small computer, by way of extra concealment, when a voice said, testily,

"Th- that will, ah… will not be n- necessary, young man."

Someone else had entered the room. John pivoted, facing the source of that sharp, impatient voice. The guy from the crash it was, dark-haired and disheveled in an ink-stained lab coat and smudged glasses.

"Th- there were functional cameras in, ah… in m- my lab, before you tampered w- with them, and I am quite aware of, ah… of who took the PDA."

But, maybe, not why.

"It wasn't her idea," John lied (as badly as ever). "I put her up to it, because I wanted to know what Dad was up to."

Dark brows twitched together behind black-rimmed spectacles. John's gaze dropped to the table top. He'd blown it; utterly blown his chance to meet… converse with… the greatest applied physicist since Enrico Fermi.

"The device was, ah… was l- left out deliberately," the engineer continued, "and c- contained nothing which you, ah… you w- wouldn't have learned soon, in, ah… in any case. But your r- reputation precedes you, and, ah… and we n- needed to learn whether you can be t- trusted with sensitive data."

We? Inside his pockets, John's fists clenched. Had he been able to do so with a button press, he would have deleted himself. Add 'stupid' to 'dishonest', though, because he might have cleared himself, won something back, by placing blame for the theft on TinTin. But the girl had meant well, and she trusted him… and these things mattered. Instead, very quietly, he said,

"I've read your book."

The engineer seemed to freeze, becoming all at once so still and silent that John could hear a sensor humming away on the wall behind him.

"M- My what?" Hackenbacker demanded, after a sudden, sharp breath.

"Your book: Temporal-Spatial Navigation in Ten Dimensions by Dwight Bremmerman, PhD. There was a copy at the Firestone Library, and my girlfriend tracked down another off the internet, for Christmas. There's an old black-and-white picture of you on the dust jacket, inside back cover. Um… So, I recognized you."

The older man (engineer, physicist and recluse) altered his stance. From having his arms folded across his chest, he clasped ink-smudged hands behind his back.

"I th- thought that I'd, ah… I'd bought up all p- publicly available copies of that thing," he muttered.

John shook his head, saying,

"You missed two that I know of, Doctor Bremmerman. One is upstairs in my backpack, the other's at Princeton. Whatever. Nice chatting with you, but I've got to go. Other people to piss off… data to steal… you know how it is."

He'd turned to go, but the engineer's next question stopped him short.

"Why, ah… why d- did you decide to, ah… to bring it back, John? Th- the PDA, I mean. S- Safer, surely, to let, ah… let TinTin do so? You w- would not then have, ah… have been implicated."

John shrugged, but he stuck miserably, stubbornly, to his lie.

"Look, it wasn't her idea. She wouldn't have taken the damn thing, except that she was trying to help… and I'd appreciate it if you leave any reference to her out, when you report back to my dad. Alter the surveillance tapes; make a video loop, or something. You got your suspect, end of story. Can I go, now?"

Like other things too overwhelming to deal with, the matter was packed in ice and shoved very deep within him, to join a growing stack of other losses.

"A- Actually, John, I b- believe that, ah…"

The fire alarm went off; ice-pick shrill and loud enough to quiver the pencil stubs around on Hackenbacker's workbench. The distraction.

John had a sudden, strong impression (almost as clear as though she were there in the room) of TinTin.

"What the h- hell?" the engineer mouthed, trying vainly to cut on his video monitors from a nearby console. No use, of course; only John could re-enable them, which he did with a few rapid key strokes, shouldering Hackenbacker brusquely aside.

"There's no fire," John muttered, though, of course, Hackenbacker would pretty soon figure that out for himself.

The alarm ceased its wild keening as, one by one, the Island's security sensors returned negative results.

"False alarm," Hackenbacker called over the house comm. "Repeat, false alarm. There is no, ah… no f- fire. Just t- testing the system."

Upstairs, Scott resumed walking and Kyrano his meal preparations. Virgil, though, kept running for the house. Turning his attention back to John, Hackenbacker said,

"I th- thank you for, ah… for returning m- my device, John, and for k- keeping (hopefully) what you've l- learned about me to yourself."

Bremmerman… now Hackenbacker… put forth a hand.

"It will b- be a distinct pleasure to, ah… to work with s- so gifted and honorable a colleague."

Weird day. A couple of hugs, a fire alarm, his brothers and a handshake, against Dad's scathing distrust. Really, no contest. Reaching tentatively outward, John accepted the gesture.