Thanks for your reviews, ED, Panoply and Tikatu. Edited.
36: Patience, and Shuffle the Cards
Antarctica, during the months-long winter night-
Ever punctual, his watch announced 5AM with a flurry of shrill, rapid beeps. Scott Tracy came to his senses in a small, dim cubicle, listening to the homey sounds of heating equipment and creaking walls. There was a window… more of a double-paned porthole, really… through which he glimpsed swirling, flood-lit snow and shards of dark sky. Sitting up in his bunk, Scott next spied an outdoor fire-escape hatch flanked by posters of 'Exotic Hawaii'. To each his own paradise, the pilot supposed, although tropical islands no longer held much personal allure.
Feeling along the inside wall, Scott found and flipped on his bunk light, further illuminating the small room. Not much else to see, really, besides a packed bookshelf, cheap grey carpeting and an inside doorway. Unlocked, he assumed.
About the night before, he honestly couldn't remember much. He'd helped to fuel Thunderbird 1, eaten many helpings of something that tasted like Heaven… beef stew and canned peaches, it was… and then been shown to his berth by Wilfred Darson, who probably would have talked more had Scott been in any shape to listen.
The rest was as blank as a row of asterisks, but it sure had improved his outlook. Funny thing, sleep; you never appreciated the importance of downtime until you found yourself constantly, unwillingly 'up'. Then a cubicle at the bottom of the world became more valuable that the Plaza Hotel's Presidential Suite, room service included.
Feeling rested and grateful, Scott yawned and stretched. Then he pushed the covers off to reveal black sweat-pants and a bright blue South Pole tee shirt. Beside his bunk was another surprise: a guest bag filled with toiletries, brochures and a couple of South Pole souvenirs, including 'winter-over' key chains and a stuffed penguin.
…All of which seemed funny and disorienting. The last time he'd been here, Amundsen-Scott Station was being cracked apart by shifting ice. Things had been far below white-glove inspection standard; an utter, deadly mess. He, John, Virgil and Brains had been sent to pluck a team of stranded scientists from the wreckage and prevent the station's reactor from exploding. They'd succeeded, more or less, but there hadn't been much left behind, and definitely no gift bags. All of this… the room, the station and airstrips… was new to him. So was that seething, pitch blackness, although the clawing winds hadn't changed a bit.
Stifling another yawn, Scott crawled out of his bunk. He wanted to wash up and visit the head, but paused long enough to make his bed, first, then changed back into uniform. He kind of hurried on this last part because (even with the heater running full blast) the room was chilly, especially near the floor. All at once, Scott's opinion of tropical islands up-ticked considerably. If nothing else, they were plenty warm.
When the cubicle was as up-tight and squared-away as an academy dorm room, Scott seized his gift bag and quietly nudged open the hall door. Cautiously, because many of the South Pole's scientific crew were operatives, but some weren't, and he couldn't afford to be seen by anyone who'd turn around and report what they'd witnessed. At this stage of the game, IR had very few friends.
…But two of them were right outside. Fred Darson greeted Scott as soon as he emerged, smiling and bushy-bearded as ever. A little greyer, maybe, but the handshake and backslap were still outdoorsman-firm. Dressed in a dark sweater and faded jeans, Darson looked less like a glaciologist than an aging ski-bum. Beside him, swarthy, curly-haired Ahmet smiled with genuine warmth, the force of his welcoming embrace almost crushing Scott.
"Good to see you up," Darson told him, just as another old friend came loping around a bend in the hallway. "We've been taking turns at guard duty and double monitoring the escape hatch, just in case."
"Thanks, Mr. Darson," Scott said to him, judging from all the folding chairs, magazines and coffee cups that he'd been warded for hours. "I really needed the sleep."
He'd have said more, asked about Darson's errands, but the new arrival interrupted him; Leanna Pace, with a fragrant, grease-stained paper bag and a huge, lidded coffee. She pushed the others aside to hug him, making Scott acutely conscious of his unshaven, morning-rumpled state.
"Welcome back, hero!"
Leanna was a NASA-trained astronomer and satellite programmer. Her shoulder-length hair was mostly grey, now, but the figure skimmed by that New England Patriots jersey was girlishly trim, making for an interesting hug.
"And how's Knight-in-shining-armor-II?" (Meaning John.)
"He's doing well," Scott replied, returning her embrace and then accepting the food and hot coffee. "I'll tell him you said hello, but the hug you'll have to deliver, yourself. Wouldn't mean as much coming from me, anyway."
Leanna laughed and punched his arm, then let Fred take over again. They sat down on the folding chairs while Darson talked and Scott explored his food bag. Fried egg-and-bacon breakfast sandwich… cinnamon roll… cheesy hash browns… fruit cup…
"It's actually a good thing that you showed up when you did," Fred was saying. "We've got a box of… really unique meteorite samples that Ahmet, here, turned up a few months ago, when he was out plowing a strip for the C-150. Strange stuff... and I'd feel more comfortable if the folks back at JPL could have a look at it."
"Dangerous?" Scott inquired, around a big mouthful of sandwich.
"No… I don't believe so. Just extremely high-energy. I'm not accustomed to that kind of power emanating from something that isn't red-hot, or poisonous. The pieces just glow and pulse, synchronizing when brought together…"
"…And lighting up every damn appliance for a hundred feet," Leanna interrupted him, shaking her blondish-grey head.
"Indeed," Ahmet cut in, "The outdoor lines had frozen while my tractor was low in fuel. It should have ceased function halfway to the station, but power was supplied, even when the gauge read 'empty'."
"Valuable stuff, as you can imagine," Darson finished up. "But I can't figure out how it produces that level of energy. Maybe NASA can pry loose a few secrets. Leanna seems to think so, at any rate."
"So, that's the errand?" Scott asked him. "Ferry meteors to the Jet Propulsion Laboratory?"
"Partly. On top of all that, my daughter, Sarah, is expecting. The pregnancy is progressing faster than planned, because she's having twins."
Both Fred and Ahmet smiled proudly at this, though Leanna merely winced. Twins were a handful, apparently.
"I'd like to request that you bring her husband along when you leave the station, please. Sarah's feeling a little overwhelmed just now, and having Ahmet there to help out would probably calm her down. That and… well, it would certainly relieve the grandpa-to-be's concerns."
Scott gulped the last of his coffee. Running a hand through his own mussed black hair, he said,
"You're on, sir. Get the samples ready and have the proud father pack his bags. Wheels up at 0630, sharp. No ifs, ands or buts."
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A Tracy Aerospace helijet, around sunset, San Francisco, California-
The Jenkinses were dropped off at a private helipad, with a handshake, a business card and a job offer (for young Albert, whose idle yacht designs had caught Jeff's eye). The notion of work seemed to interest Albert Murchison Jenkins IV, though he didn't need the money and had more potential amusements than one man could hope to explore in several lifetimes. Politics was one thing, but a job…? Like the 'other half'?
"Bertie, do mull it over," Carolyn urged her husband, as they stepped from the aircraft with Jeff Tracy. "Imagine how fascinated everyone will be when you recount your tales of power lunches and water-cooler intrigue! Stitch and I would visit your office every day, of course."
The Pomeranian barked and wagged his black tail, evidently as eager to explore the corporate jungle as his smiling young mistress. And Albert, despite numerous stern talks with himself in the mirror, could refuse Carolyn nothing.
"Well, Jeff," he laughed, offering Tracy his hand, "it seems that you've hired yourself a Jenkins."
"Welcome aboard," Jeff replied warmly, shaking the younger man's hand. "Come to the Manhattan office next… make it Friday… at 10:00 AM, and we'll finalize the details, Albert. In the meantime, my people here in California will see to your comfort until you can make arrangements to return to Massachusetts."
His San Francisco branch manager and secretary were already crossing the helipad, best welcoming smiles fixed and ready. But Carolyn leaned back into the aircraft to wave before taking her leave.
"Good bye and thank you, Mrs. Tracy… TinTin and Elspeth, too! We won't forget you!"
She was quite a pretty thing, Carolyn Cabot-Jenkins; blonde, wealthy and entirely at ease. TinTin felt meager and shy by comparison, though Fermat was more interested in his PDA than any departing fellow passengers. The 'game' kept him well occupied.
As for Jeff, the evening's good news was just about over with. Once returned to his helijet, the former astronaut had to resume thinking about his scattered sons, his illegal rescue operation and the devastated island he'd left behind. Worse than that, he had to deal with WorldGov.
The attempted debriefing interview had been bad enough (and surely reportable), but an attack? Honest-to-God missiles, fired at Thunderbird 3, with intent to destroy? Intolerable.
Something similar had happened to Thunderbird 2, when she'd been sent to find and recover a downed American submarine. It had been WorldGov that time, too, and he hadn't liked it any better.
Settling back against cushions of butter-soft leather, Jeff Tracy buckled up and considered his options. Around him the engines howled to full power, lifting the helijet off the pad and into the cooling air. Her pilot murmured of distance and ETA, but Jeff fell to thinking and barely caught a word of it.
Had International Rescue made some new and powerful enemy? Was President Moreira, himself, out to crush them? Certainly the world government appeared thoroughly hostile, and the United States just about helpless to stop them. Only the fact that Thunderbird 3 was fast and space-worthy had saved Alan and Brains. That and John's skill with faked commands.
Coming to a decision, Jeff tuned the cabin's comm unit to Penelope, and gave Her Absent Ladyship a ring.
"Jeff, darling!"
Penny's scantily-clad image smiled brilliantly from some beach in the tropics; Brazil, he guessed, from the tall, sugar-loaf peak and statue of Christ in the background.
"How perfectly splendid to hear from you, again!"
She seemed to be wearing little more than a spangled cloth sarong draped about her gracefully rounded hips, with above that a quantity of shell necklaces and artfully arranged golden hair covering other, tenderer curves. Yes… well.
"Always a pleasure speaking to you, too, Penny. I'm wondering if you might do me a favor, once you've wrapped up your current assignment."
"Anything, Jeffery, of course. You have only to ask."
(If only it was that simple!) Unaware of the effect that Penelope's appearance was having on the other passengers, Jeff straightened his shoulders and broadened his smile.
"Thank you. As soon as possible, then, I'd like you to undertake a little research. Here's what I need…"
While Jeff spoke with Lady Penelope, his former wife grew very still and wide-eyed. Almost, Gennine looked like she'd gotten her death sentence. Grandma reacted differently, though. She shook her head, grumping,
"Lord, have mercy! If your father was just here, what he wouldn't say about that two-faced little baggage havin' half the men in this family twisted 'round her damn pinky finger! I reckon he'd set things straight, faster 'n Miss 24-karat bloodlines could say 'plastic surgery'!"
Victoria received a shock of her own, then, for the normally quiet Elspeth Morgan, Penelope's maid, spoke up. Fierce and protective as a lion, she said,
"Beggin' yer pardon, mum, but to the best o' my knowledge, Lady Penelope hasn't ever had 'improvements'. Not beyond the odd bit o' blush, and that just fer modeling and fetes and such. She's lovely as the good lord in his wisdom chose to make her. Naturally, she stirs hearts… and jealousy."
Grandma examined the plump, outraged servant. Then she grunted and turned away, muttering,
"She don't deserve you, but I'll say no more. Ain't no use arguin' politics, religion or love."
…Because it wouldn't have done any good. Elspeth was as blind to the noblewoman's flaws as John Matthew and Jeffery, himself, but there was only so much an old woman could do.
Jeff had by this time concluded the conversation, utterly unaware of the swirling emotions around him. On a roll and starting to feel better, he next contacted John, whose news was mixed, to say the least. His blond son appeared weary, still, but a little more focused. The background had changed, too, this time depicting a fictitiously gentle seascape.
"Yeah. Thanks for calling, dad. I've got a couple of things to touch base on: First, Shadowbot and the wrist comms are online again. Second, you were outbid for Ile St. Martin. It belongs to somebody else, now, and he's not selling at any price. Third, there's a situation developing with 'Sir Gawain' and the locals. I'm on it, though, and you can expect an update within the hour."
John paused at that point, apparently expecting a response, but it was all Jeff could do to manage a nod. Damn it! Why in the hell had he entrusted the St. Martin negotiations to John?
"I see," he said, at last. "Well… the reality show crew is no longer much of a problem, anyway."
He should have added something else, like, 'thanks for trying, son', but sheer frustration stopped the words in Jeff Tracy's throat.
"Yeah," John replied, just as though he hadn't just failed to close a very important transaction. "That's being dealt with. I'll talk to you again at 1930, local time, sir."
"Right," Jeff snapped at a suddenly dark screen, swallowing a whole pharmacy's worth of bitter pills.
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Vatupele, in the midst of a 'situation'-
The terrified natives had scattered at Virgil's noisy, gun-firing approach. Not all of them got away, however. Gordon succeeded in capturing the old chieftain, who wasn't swift enough to dodge, nor fierce enough to fight him off.
He got the old man in a headlock, despite all of his twisting and cursing, earning at least half a dozen savage bites from those sharply-filed teeth.
"Damn it! Keep still before I pound you bloody senseless!"
He meant it, too, and would have derived a shameful amount of satisfaction from doing so. Virgil had a better notion, though. Using his reactivated wrist comm, the big pilot contacted John, who did his level best to communicate with the angry chieftain. On a hunch, he had Virgil set the wrist comm for holographic display, which caused the astronaut's glowing image to rise before them like a ghost… or a black-clad god. An inch or so off the heaving ground he hovered, untroubled by ash or wind.
At first, the old fellow maintained his silent, furious struggle. After awhile, though, he calmed enough to listen and then to respond, answering John's questions with grudging respect. Finally, he shrugged out of Gordon's hold (once John convinced the much-bitten swimmer to let go). Then the old man summoned his people with a shrill, warbling cry; wild as a cat's.
A few at a time they came, emerging from the dark palm jungle in tense, frightened knots, gripping weapons, household goods and infants. Glancing at John's hologram, Gordon asked,
"What did you say to him? Bloody effective, whatever it was."
The image shrugged.
"Nothing special. Just pointed out that nine times out of ten, gods prefer live worshippers to dead heroes, and that corpses have a really hard time making a point. Also, from a power angle, if he's seen to control interaction with the, um, 'thunder-god-bird', he'll have won some major respect. Beats presiding over Ragnarok, any day."
Compelling arguments all. They certainly swayed Palu'au, who ordered his gathered flock to heed the great bird and its messengers.
"I have striven with them, my children," the chieftain reported, "and by showing courage, have won for us passage to the heavens!"
His announcement might have rung truer had he not tried to throw a companionable arm around Gordon. Blunted his message somewhat, being shoved aside like that.
At any rate, the entire cavalcade fell into step with Virgil, Gordon and Palu'au, back the way they'd come. Virgil found and rescued Katu, lifting the fallen warrior in a fireman's carry and still managing to stride along as though he'd been toting nothing heavier than a sack of chicken-feed. This act plunged the natives into total confusion, for the weak and wounded were nearly always abandoned, even by those they'd loved. Katu's woman-to-be had all but placed herself beside him in the grave pit by not leaving the stricken warrior. Nor was this their last paradigm shift, that day.
Once of the younger women (a barely-tattooed girl of perhaps fourteen) was being trailed by a small boy. He was marked with lucky symbols and had a shark's tooth on a cord about his neck, but still the little fellow couldn't keep pace, though his mother stopped often to adjust her head-strap and load. A young warrior fell back, as well, clutching hard at hope and his good spear. Makor was his name, and he shot many glances from the chieftain to his woman and laboring child, praying that Palu'au would not notice them. The boy was already weaned, and thus too old to carry.
Makor's first-to-live, the boy was normally filled with laughter and mischief. Proud of his son, the warrior had stolen often by night to the women's hut to hold him and to be near his chosen one, beautiful Aki. Now though, as he struggled over palm logs and coughed up dark phlegm, the boy was too desperate for mischief and games, and his young mother close to tears. If he couldn't keep up, the boy must be left behind for Night-Woman, as that was the people's way.
Makor thought of slowing his own pace, and of extending the shaft of his spear, as though carelessly, for the little one to take hold of, but too late; overcome by ash and exhaustion, his son fell to the rumbling ground. The woman halted at once. In a trembling, cajoling voice, she called to the boy.
"Come little star, come funny bird, we are almost there! Once more up, my brave one! Look, there is your father. Shall a good son bring grief and disappointment to his ancestors? Come, my little, my love… up now, for I go no further without you."
Other women had convened by then, some calling as well, others keening prayers to assuage Night-Woman's hunger. Neither course had any effect at all, until one of the demons-turned-messengers… the one they'd captured… strode over, seized the shaking child, and thrust him into his mother's eagerly reaching arms. He said something, too, although no-one could make sense of the garbled phrases. What they did understand was that the new gods wanted life, rather than strength. That somehow, even little and weak ones mattered.