Alan

In the heart of the Massachusetts countryside, there was an unaccustomed cacophony.

The roar of revving engines and beat music was almost deafening. A bevy of youngsters sat about on car bonnets, sipping sodas and illegally obtained alcohol, impatiently awaiting the main event of the night.

For six days out of seven this was one of the quietest roads in the county. It was long and straight; for this particular three-mile stretch the road neither deviated nor crossed another, except for the occasional farm track.

It was like a lavender hedge to bees. Every car-jock in the county headed there on a Saturday evening.

Alan Tracy was the first in the queue.

And was the man to beat.

Tonight, however, was not just any race. Tonight was the prix des prix.

Alan adjusted his radio headset. He stepped on the gas impatiently, longing for the signal to release the handbrake.

And it came, and he was off, wheels squealing. The car, a fantastically pimped variant of sedate family sedan, accelerated to sixty in less than eight seconds. Alan kept his foot floored.

In the distance, he could see the headlights of his opponent.

If there was one thing Alan had learned in twenty years of being brought up with four brothers, it was how to keep his nerve.

So his response to the oncoming headlights was to grin, sit up straighter, and accelerate even harder.

The oncoming headlights loomed larger and larger.

Alan held his position.

So did the other driver.

The two cars sped towards one another at a combined speed of one-hundred and seventy miles per hour.

Alan was cool enough to freeze a pyroclastic eruption. To the other driver, a sophomore wannabe called Josh Newcombe, it must have seemed like Nemesis herself was bearing down on him.

And at the very last split second, when it seemed inevitable that the two vehicles would collide and be instantly obliterated, Josh finally wavered and swerved.

As they passed, Alan felt a jerk as the other car brushed him marginally. A grip of iron kept him on the road and travelling forwards. His opponent was not so lucky.

Alan glanced in the rear view mirror to see Josh's car flip over and into the field.

"Oops," he said thoughtfully. Then shrugged. You wanted to play in the big league, you had to learn to take the knocks.

A few moments later he'd turned back and pulled in, and easing himself through the window, punched the air in triumph.

The assembled crowd went wild.

There was a knock at the motel room door.

Alan poked his tousled head up above the sheets. "Shit."

There was a soft moan from beneath him. "Baby?"

Alan turned his attention back to Bo. Bo was blonde and very, very well-endowed. He'd discovered that if he tickled her under the chin she actually purred. He went back to tickling her. She arched her back a little and purred again. Alan grinned delightedly. He wondered what she would do if he tickled more intimate parts of her anatomy.

The bedclothes moved. Alan found his back being rubbed. The sensation was perfectly delightful. Rachel was as dark as Bo was blonde. And every bit as well-endowed. Hands folded around his waist, and a finger started probing his belly-button, and in place of her hands, his back was now being rubbed instead by those enormous…

The knock at the door grew more insistent.

Alan swore again. He gently but firmly removed all the body parts that were intertwined with his own and reached for a bathrobe, trying his best to ignore the moans of disappointment.

He flung the door wide. "Yes? What?" he snapped. "Oh, it's you."

"Nice to see you too, little brother. For a man who's supposed to be at Harvard, you're remarkably hard to find. It's taken me three days to track you down."

"I have a busy schedule. Shouldn't you be on a submarine somewhere? What do you want, Gordon?"

"To talk business." Gordon shot an interested glance in the direction of Bo and Rachel. The former was eyeing him up in return.

Alan interposed himself firmly between Gordon and Bo. "Not interested."

"We're starting up a new family venture."

"Definitely not interested."

"Scott wants us all on board."

"All of us?"

"He's very insistent."

"Has he forgotten that John's still got about twenty years to serve?"

"Ah yes. And how is dear Johnnie, anyway?"

"Ask someone who cares," Alan said sourly. "Look, Gordon, did I mention I'm busy? I have a life. I have plans of my own. Whatever you're all up to, I want no part of it."

He'd backed up, inadvertently, to the bed, where Rachel, pouting at the delay, was indulging her fascination with his belly button once again.

Gordon couldn't take his eyes off Bo. Bo pursed her lips and blew him a kiss.

Alan shook his head. "All right," he snapped. "You two can…whatever…if you want. Never say I don't share my toys. Then you're out of here, right?"

"Okay," Gordon said, good-naturedly.

Alan shook his head bad-temperedly, and went back to Rachel's ministrations. He tried to ignore the noises from the other side of the room. He wondered if he should mention the purr and decided against it. Let Gordon find out by himself.

Alan continued to explore Rachel. Slowly he regained his equanimity. He lost himself deeply inside her, rather forgetting that Gordon and Bo were merely feet away on the rug.

There was a sharp rap at the door.

Alan was tugged back to the here-and-now. "What now?" he snapped.

Gordon's head reappeared from underneath Bo. Alan noted absently that there was a trail of his brother's clothes across the floor. "I expect that'll be Scott."

"What?" Alan was horrified. "Scott? Here? What's he doing here? Shouldn't he be in Kurdistan or somewhere? Oh, man, he's such a prude. He's gonna freak."

Gordon just shrugged apologetically. "Sorry. He's early. I should have thought. You know how he likes to get the jump on us."

Alan, his ardor deflating rapidly, reached once more for his bathrobe.

He hadn't made it out of bed when there was a soft noise at the door and it clicked open.

Scott stood there, credit card in hand. He surveyed the scene in front of him with a faintly raised eyebrow, though his actual expression was difficult to discern, hidden as it was behind the customary reflective shades.

Then he took a breath and stepped into the room. He ignored Bo and Rachel.

"Alan."

"Scott."

Alan hastily donned his bathrobe and scrambled to his feet.

The two brothers stood staring at each other for a long moment. At length, Scott reached into his breast pocket. Alan flinched, but only marginally. Scott drew out two hundred dollar bills. He held them up and waved them gently.

Bo and Rachel took the hint, gathered their clothes, and took a bill each on the way out.

Gordon sighed.

Scott still didn't take his eyes off Alan. "Come here, boy," he said softly.

Alan rolled his eyes and crossed over to where his brother stood.

Scott framed his youngest brother's head with both hands and kissed him full on the mouth.

Alan pulled a face and leaned aside to spit into the trash. "Do you have to do that? It's so…so Mafioso," he complained. "Every time you do it I'm convinced you've taken out a hit on me."

Scott just grinned and hugged him close.

"Has Gordon explained everything to you?"

"He came in here wittering about the family business. That sounded Mafioso too, so to be honest, I didn't take any notice of him. Whatever it is, I don't want to know."

"Ah, but you're going to love this. We're going into the rescue business."

"Good for you." Alan sat on the edge of the bed. Behind them, Gordon surreptitiously began to dress himself. "I don't much care, to be frank."

"The idea is that the five of us will form an elite rescue team," Scott continued patiently. "We're going to be backed up by the latest technology. We're going to have state-of-the-art equipment."

"Not doing it."

"Dad's got the best scientists and engineers on it."

"Which bit of 'not doing it' are you not getting here, Scott? I have a life. I'm at Harvard."

"…repeating your freshman year for the third time…"

"I'm racing cars."

"…playing chicken…"

"And bedding beautiful women."

"…screwing prostitutes in motel rooms…"

"They were not whores! You were the one waving notes at them! And I'm in a motel room out of consideration of my room-mate who is revising for his finals. Satisfied?"

"What do you most, most want to be in the whole wide world, Alan?"

Alan's face twisted. "What do you mean?"

Scott pulled up a chair, took off his shades, and looked calmly and directly into Alan's eyes.

"Ever since you were tiny, you had a dream."

"A dream?"

"A dream. What was it?"

Alan shrugged sulkily. "I guess I wanted to be an astronaut."

Scott leaned forward. "Well, the idea is that for earth-bound rescues, I'll be in charge." He cleaned his sunglasses on his sleeve. "I'll have a first response vehicle that will travel at speeds in excess of Mach 10."

Alan gave a hollow laugh. "You're shitting me, right?"

"Watch your language. Now, for space rescues, we need a different kind of vehicle. And we need someone to take charge and pilot her." Glasses in hand, he poked his younger brother in the chest for emphasis. "And that someone, little brother, is you. Kid, you are going to NASA to train as an astronaut."

Alan sat back, and let it sink in. He was plainly overwhelmed. "Aw, man! NASA? An astronaut? You mean it? I have to go phone Tin-Tin."

"Make sure she knows it's top secret. If this gets out Dad will have us all weighted with cement and dropped into the Hudson."

"Right." Alan was dismissive. "Like she'd blab!"

Scott settled back as Alan grabbed his cell and shot out into the parking lot so he could get better reception.

"Did I hear right? Did you just offer him his own space rocket?" Gordon asked with an incredulous expression on his face.

Scott leant back, fingers laced behind his head. "Gordon, how many space rescues do you suppose we'll get?"

"Duh – none," Gordon said.

Scott smiled. "Precisely."