Hi, and thanks ED, Ship's Cat and Tikatu! Edits this evening, I promise. Edited again.
10: From the Ashes
Tracy Island, that same wild, gusty night-
John came around, regaining consciousness upright, and with half of a word in his mouth; the fading contrail of somebody else's conversation.
"I'm…"
I'm what?
Well, his damp and blanket-wrapped father was there, while the gun wasn't, so…
I'm unarmed? I'm… really curious about what the hell just happened?
Doctor Bennett figured in there, somewhere, along with a door (like the airlock, on Mars). Doctors and portals of any sort seemed like a bad combination, leading to destructive interference with his thought processes. Yeah, so… Taking stock, he was outside on the pool deck, at night, surrounded by busily-striding military sorts and double-parked aircraft, one of them pretty alien-looking. The wind stank of gunpowder and brassy spent shell-casings, along with chlorine and a little blood (some of it his). Still confused, John looked around.
A hasty count turned up four grown brothers, Grandma, two infants, his own wife and dad's… with Ike and Fermat, the servants and TinTin thrown in, too (no extra charge). It also turned up a headache, but Linda was coming with the baby and a med-kit, and possibly aspirin.
She'd been working as hard as he had to adjust to Earth gravity, but she still walked slower, and paused more frequently for rest; a short, intense and very… valuable? Very important female. His wife.
In the midst of chaos and its aftermath, Linda had managed to kiss and embrace her blond husband and to sneak frequent looks at him; just to be sure he was safe. Especially after that ridiculous stunt he'd pulled, attacking the gunmen's leader (Captain Black, himself, apparently). She'd worried about him. But other injuries, other patients, took precedence over one scuffed-up, bone-headed astronaut.
Junior twisted about in Linda's arms, reaching for her daddy with both outstretched hands, kicking and crowing delightedly. Dr. Bennett passed the child over, looking John up and down with a practiced eye. Beneath all those contusions and abrasions, his color wasn't good. Respiration seemed rather shallow and rapid, while a quick check at his left wrist revealed that his pulse was galloping along, too. Gravity effects, maybe, or…
"Come sit down for awhile, John. You aren't feeling well, whether you realize it, or not. Mild shock, most likely."
A kiss followed her unofficial diagnosis; John leaning down to brush his mouth against her forehead, leaving a warm and tingling spot that wasn't at all professional. But her father-in-law stirred at Linda's medical advice, frowning slightly.
"Linda, if you can wait just a moment, I'd like to speak to my son."
She cocked a brown eyebrow at him, and began fiddling with her portable med-kit.
"Isn't that exactly what you've been doing for the last fifteen minutes, Jeff? Besides, from the look of things, your wife and mother are about to wake up, and they'd probably appreciate your presence at the, er… bedside. Poolside. Whatever."
Battle and triage had left her a little bit rattled. Fortunately, Jeff didn't need any further persuading, and shot off like his famous, long-ago moon rocket, thrusting a mug of unwanted coffee at her. Sheer good luck, the fact that she didn't get drenched.
Anyhow, her exhausted husband was quite amenable to having a seat and a check-up, planting himself in the least shot-up patio chair they could find, baby on lap. She got more kisses than examination done, and was mildly disturbed to learn that, once again, major bits of John's memory were gone. He didn't even recall tackling Captain Black. One such fugue was unusual; two were alarming, especially considering his "school history".
"I'm no psychiatrist, Sunshine," she told him, after checking his reflexes and bilateral grip strength, "but I've developed a theory about these blackouts of yours. Want to hear it?"
He nodded, pale hair shining like ice in the harsh floodlights.
"Fire away, doctor."
(Another kiss, quick, like the others; delivered when he thought no one but the baby could see.)
"Okay, here it is: I don't think you know how to let yourself take risks or show courage. I think the only way you can do something that foolish is by having an out-of-body experience. Bracketing the whole thing and sealing it away. Like it?"
John shrugged a little. Maybe she was right about the second occasion, but, as for the first… He didn't feel like explaining "Mr. Perfect" to her, just then. What had happened on Mars was over, plain and simple. It could damn well stay buried.
"Makes as much sense as anything else, I guess… but I'm not talking to any more flight surgeons, present company excepted. No more psychiatrists, no more counselors, no more Rorschach tests. Period."
Then, changing the subject,
"Will Grandma be all right?"
Linda paused in passing her med-kit's scanning wand over daughter and husband.
"I think so, John. She's pretty tough, but I recommend a night at the hospital, anyhow, just in case that stun-grenade has unintended side effects. And the same for 'her ladyship'."
Glancing at the med-kit screen, Linda added,
"According to Dr. Portable, here, you're in reasonably good shape, and I love you."
John craned his head to look at the small yellow screen, which didn't seem to have rendered any emotional evals, at all. He had to shift the baby when Linda sat herself down on his lap. Say what you would about females... like wildflowers, they had a way of taking root and brightening their surroundings.
"Well," he said, "I guess someone has to. Love me, that is. It can't be an easy job."
She laughed at him.
"Mister, you have no idea. Say: I love you, too. It'll make me feel good."
John smiled.
"I love you, Doctor."
"And Junior."
"Her, too."
She sighed and rested her head against his chest, while Janie batted happily at both parents. Duty called, however. Dr. Bennett had too many patients that night to fall asleep on her husband's lap. Anyhow, they were interrupted when Gordon came forward with a uniformed WASP officer.
"John… Linda… Commander Garrett t' see you. Sir, my brother, John Tracy, and his wife, Dr. Bennett. The little one is by way of being their daughter, Janeling."
Linda hopped off, blushing like she'd been caught in the storage locker with a half-clothed and randy young tech-rep. John was smoother, but then, he hardly ever got visibly upset. Handing Janie off to her doting Uncle Gordon, he stood up and said,
"What can I do for you, Commander?"
The officer gave him a tight, perfunctory smile.
"Mr. Tracy, I'm given to understand that you have a way with machines. The human prisoners have all been taken into custody, you see, while most of the, uh… non-standard aircraft have lit off for parts unknown. But that one…" he jerked a thumb over one shoulder at the only Cyclops craft remaining. "…we don't know how to communicate with, or board. Think you could give it a try, Mr. Tracy?"
"John," the astronaut corrected mildly, looking over at a bullet-riddled and silent black aircraft. "Mr. Tracy's my father. And, yeah… I'll give it a go. What the hell, huh?"
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At the other side of the pool deck, seated much nearer the house-
Alan should have been pleased by all the attention. He was a genuine family hero, now; 100 percent and officially. Instead, all he felt was nervous and depressed, in a "can we please not talk about this" kind of way. No surprise there, right? Like… it was impossible to relax or joke around when, every time you closed your eyes, all you could see was dang gun barrels and green floodlights.
For real, in the end, he hadn't saved anybody, just made extra weight for dad to drag out of the water. Jeff Tracy was the real hero… like Gordon, Scott, Virgil and John. Alan was just a squishy-damp kid with his tooth in his pocket and plenty of bruises. On the other hand…
Alan squinted at TinTin, haloed like one of those Christmas card angels by glittering spotlights, her hair loose and her soft hands comforting. It was kind of nice being fussed over by TinTin Kyrano. A guy could get used to that, y'know?
Maybe she heard what he was thinking, and maybe Alan didn't care if she did. In fact… maybe he wanted her to.
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Most of the prisoners had been packed into the helijets for transport to Spectrum HQ, when a small VTOL jet arrived for Dr. Hackenbacker. Besides the pilot and four grim-faced Marines, there was a government official aboard: one Gloria Beckwith. Medium sort of woman. Medium height, average build, hair of a texture and color that defied categorization simply for being so… unexceptional. Eyes maybe grey or fawn brown, but in any case widened by her severe, rimless spectacles. Clothing tan, and as near to a uniform as anyone could manage who wasn't in military service. Apparently devoid of humor as the Mojave Desert was of tapirs and ocelots.
"Dr. Hackenbacker?" she enquired, upon reaching the pool deck. Being that Tracy Island was all at once Grand Central Station, her advent and question shocked no one at all. Virgil Tracy was nearest at the time, so he gestured with the glowing end of a bummed cigarette and said,
"Over there. Tall, skinny guy with dark hair and glasses. Can't miss him."
Miss Beckwith's face registered taut disapproval at the cigarette's drifting fumes and sharp, clove-y tang.
"Thank you," she snapped, nodding frigidly. "That will be all."
And then she headed across the pool deck, trailing Marines like so many camo ducklings.
Virgil looked down at himself. Okay… he was scruffy, shirtless, powder-burnt and smoking a really bad cigarette… but did he look that disreputable? Nah… just comfy, the former athlete decided. Beat up and worn-in, like a favorite old sweatshirt, or lucky socks. Shrugging, he turned back to the Coast Guard officer who'd been taking his statement.
"Anyway," Virgil continued, "about then we heard gunshots, and Scott figured we ought to…"
Beckwith found Hackenbacker, just as easily as that slovenly gardener-sort had predicted she would. Her news… that the World President wished to speak with him in person, immediately… did not please the man, who seemed to be a jittery, stuttering bundle of angles and nerves.
"B- But I'm, ah… I'm n- needed here, Ms. Beckford."
"Beckwith," she corrected, standing back far enough to look at the man without having to noticeably crane her head. "Gloria Beckwith, GS-4, of the World Government Requisitions Ministry, in Madrid. The matter is urgent and secret, Dr. Hackenbacker, or I would not have been sent here in quite such a hurry. The President wishes to speak with you."
Beckwith took out her smart-phone, glanced at its clock feature, and then added,
"I can allow you thirty-five minutes to assemble a carry-on bag and return to this spot, but that is all, Dr. Hackenbacker. The President must not be kept waiting."
The engineer twitched, plucking at his clothing, calculator and PDA. In the end, he agreed to go, so long as Fermat came with him. Too much had happened recently for Hiram Hackenbacker to lightly part with his son.
Jeff and the rest were worried about their safety on the long flight to Madrid… but it wasn't Brains' transport that was attacked and destroyed en route. It was the press flight chartered by Cindy-Taylor Tracy. No distress call, no survivors.