Oops! Minor edit!

38: Double Overtime

Tracy Island after a windy night, stuck in the family room, with a slight, but annoying cold-

"Oh… my… gosh! He is so full of crap!"

Furious, Alan sniffled and growled at the newly repaired television. Local programming had been interrupted once more by the latest transmission from 'Captain Black'. In fact, other than government updates, finance and accident reports, the networks displayed little else. And no wonder! The clips were very dramatic; broken by static and Mysteron warnings that Black was their prisoner. His ship, their property. Let any who helped him beware! Yeah, right...

"If anyone can hear me," he'd called out, hunched over the flight controls of an obviously damaged vessel, "Please listen! The aliens are preparing an invasion force, using… material from… astronauts. I've stolen one of … assault ships, but… not make it… Earth. Please, don't accept any… issions from Mars." And so on.

Alan couldn't stand the sight of him, and quickly switched channels again, rather than have to look at Black's earnest expression and bold, handsome face. Pheh! Loser! Double loser!

"He's lying," muttered the congested young man, reaching deep into a crinkling plastic bag for another handful of smuggled Doritos. "He's gotta be!"

(Okay, yeah… Alan was supposed to be eating chicken soup and junk, but that stuff only made him feel worse. At least Doritos tasted like something, stuffed up nose or not.)

Black had to be lying, because John was on Mars, and his quiet older brother would never let himself be used for zombie-horde fodder. Never. Not the way he played D & D.

Fermat wandered into the family room about that time, looking disheveled, tired and dirty. He'd been out with his dad, clearing fallen branches from the island's main airstrip, and he didn't seem happy.

(Well, duh! His mom was dead; like Scott, John, Virgil and Gordon's… except that Gordon didn't really remember her. Lucy, that is.)

Not sure what to say to him, Alan settled for a wave and weak smile.

"Hey, what's up?" he asked, when the younger boy drifted over. "Sorry I haven't been much help today, man, but I'm almost over this, for real."

Fermat shrugged and began straightening Alan's sickroom mess of dropped napkins and scattered magazines.

"Doesn't m- matter. We got it… t- taken care of. But, I was th- thinking, Alan…"

"Yeah?" the blond flickered a nervous grin at him, adding, "Kinda dangerous habit, Ferms. I try to avoid it, myself."

Fermat flinched at the nickname. And all at once, Alan remembered that the boy's mom had often called him that, back when she was, like, alive.

"Dude, I'm so sorry! For real, it's locked away forever. I won't ever say that, again!"

Fermat gave him another shrug and a crooked, watery smile. Having finished fluffing and stuffing, he sat down, choosing a big, squashy armchair across from Alan's blanketed couch.

"D- Don't worry about it… Al. I'm a b- big boy. I'll live. I was just… I w- was thinking... you know… about wh- what Captain B- Black reported? Th- That the astronauts on M- Mars are being used for… genetic s- source material? M- Maybe they've d- done… the same th- thing with my mom, Alan. Maybe she's still… alive, s- somewhere."

"Uh-uh," Alan grunted, shaking the last few crumbs out of his family-sized chip bag. "No way. Black's lying. I know it. I don't think he stole any ship, or escaped from Mars, either! I think he's the one who's possessed." (Like Chris had been.) "But, I digest. The reason your mom isn't being harvested for DNA stuff is because no one is. Black made all that up just to keep us from going to Mars and finding out the truth! Bet me."

He could afford to be confident, you see, with his own mother safely tucked away at a So-Cal peace commune, polishing up crystals and beads. But Fermat didn't feel much like betting, or like giving up on his last, tightly-clutched straw.

"Alan… w- what if there was a w- way we c- could find out f- for… sure?"

"I'm listening," his friend replied cautiously, stifling a volcanic sneeze. "What'd you have in mind?"

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High in the air, between the Hawaiian Islands and Kanaho-

There was a good reason why Brains and Fermat had been out all morning clearing up the night's scattered windfalls. Virgil was headed back, in one of the company jets, having both visited Jeff at the hospital and sprung Cindy Taylor from jail.

Figuring that he ought to get to know his new sister-in-law, Virgil tried several safe topics of conversation, but she didn't seem interested in art, music or football (except for USC). All she wanted to talk about was her very drunk and informative cellmates, and how quickly she could "get back to business".

Virgil grunted and switched navigational transponder settings, waiting for the beep before adjusting his course. The distance from Oahu to Tracy Island was considerable, and home easy to miss in all this wide ocean.

"You were released into my custody," he reminded her, "because Judge Ho is a friend of the family, and because he trusts me to keep you out of trouble and off the airwaves. I had to promise that I'd make damn sure you serve every second of your kindergarten story-time community service, before he agreed to let you out."

Cindy stiffened, and not because Virgil had banked the Lear to avoid a tumbling mass of dark clouds. (Though the rising engine noise and juddering airframe didn't help her mood.)

"You're kidding me, right? You took that stuff seriously? Buddy, I've done jail time in seven different countries, for going where I'm not supposed to and shouting truths that somebody else didn't want heard! Community... service?"

Virgil looked over at his new sister-in-law; his brown eyes stern and brows solidly knit.

"Yeah. Community service. And, no, I'm not kidding. I haven't spent much time in California, Cindy, but where I'm from it's understood: if you break the law, you pay the price. Pure and simple."

Cindy scowled back. She and Virgil Tracy'd had a telephone and vid-comm nodding acquaintance, previously, but he was shaping up to be quite a formidable opponent, in person… and worse, he was among Scott's closest friends.

Turning suddenly away, the reporter stared out at bright sunshine and purple storm clouds; at an ocean divided in half by wild rain squalls and streaked with the white tracks of ships.

"Kindergartners," she growled with genuine loathing. "Reading 'My Little Poopy Puppy' to a bunch of sticky, noisy, goddam kindergartners! Show a little mercy, Virgil! At least help me get my sentence commuted to middle school. I could probably survive 'Harry Potter and the Flipping Fill-in-the-Blank', but enduring a room full of tots would just about kill me."

Virgil gazed at the pretty, hard-natured reporter, wondering what in God's name Scott saw in her.

"I'll talk to Judge Ho," he sighed, shaking his head, "but I can't promise anything. Larry Ho does his own thing. Always has. Listen, though: whether it's kindergarten, nursing home or reform school, you need to suck it up and do what he tells you to. You're one of the family now, Cindy, and Tracys pay their debts."

The former Miss Taylor stared at her handsome brother-in-law for a moment, and then she smiled; unleashing the same brilliant white tooth-flash she always used when cornering a reluctant interview subject.

"You have my solemn oath, Cowboy. I'll put up with having my lap sat on, my hair yanked and my dress rumpled by dozens of chocolate-smeared hands, all in the name of Tracy solidarity, so help me, God. How's that?"

Virgil snorted and began to relax (as much as he could, with a major storm brewing).

"Mrs. Scott Aaron Tracy, you're a real piece of work. I can't wait to introduce you to Grandma and Penny. Hell, I oughta charge admission!"

"You don't think I can handle one old woman and an over-bred British aristocrat?" she teased back, raising one dark, arching brow.

Virgil chuckled, eyes on his instruments, weather-ear on the news from Pacific South Tower.

"I think it's going to be interesting," he replied diplomatically, as their plane streaked southward and west; swift as a gull against scowling dark clouds.