Scott was wearing this season's Tom Ford, and not just because it made him look good. It was American, significantly, which might work on the public subconscious somehow, a subtle underscoring of his allegiances. It might have been something Dad would have suggested, perhaps a recommendation to consider the optics of the last few weeks: how it might affect the Image, bring about a deficit of trust if the last spontaneous press appearance never had its foil.

But it had been years since Dad had succumbed to offering any of them serious sartorial advice. He regarded the task as a kind of clockwork, the deism of a masterclass in style, when the creator set his work in motion and stepped away to let the lessons run their course. Dad had taken Scott to Gieves & Hawkes when they were in London years ago, partially for the novelty of visiting Savile Row, but mostly because it was the easiest way to make his point quite clear: Classic was Best. Dark, two-button, single-breasted. Be moderate in your details. Even a pocket square can be excessive.

That last one was admittedly more aimed at Gordon, who'd show up in nothing but pocket squares, given the chance. He was generally the exception to their father's laissez faire approach to things, needing the occasional intervention when he appeared in something he called 'festive' and Dad termed 'unwise.' It hadn't helped that Gordon, left to his own devices up the coast, had gone through several, varying phases of gas station chic, for some reason being entirely too adept at finding discount tie-dye in the back bargain bin.

Scott sipped his champagne, taking in the room.

If Dad had really wanted to give everything for the cause tonight, he would've made John come. Because there was something to be said about the unified front. Strength in numbers. And these were John's people more than Scott's anyway—men and women of the niche sciences, scattered in pockets across the landscape of the room—each the guiding lights to their respective fields and any of whom John would've gladly engaged in debate about heavy element accretion in planetary whatever: a conversation Scott had already had the unbounded pleasure of overhearing in the lobby.

John would have liked that. Or he would have liked winning, in any case. The little nerd could get pretty flashy when he wanted to, and from what Scott could gather of the Harvard days, John had spent most of his waking hours cutting people down to size with surgical precision.

So really, John should be here but the lucky bastard was at home, loafing around the penthouse in his old Mark Matter and the Cosmic Realm sweatshirt and pointedly not here to appreciate the organic structure of the party—the way it hadn't been planned by people who thought a fold-up table and a bag of potato chips was enough for a good time. And by 'people' Scott meant John, because that was something he would have done, having previously claimed 'the biggest asset to a party are the minds in attendance,' which was nice in theory but didn't actually grease the wheels as well as finger food and an open bar.

Appreciably, there was some social savvy at work tonight; the party had the unstudied air of a good time, the venue chosen for its configuration—a cathedral space for tables, with annexes off the main sanctuary, which were—according to a pretty astrophysicist who'd slipped her number in Scott's pocket—intended for more 'intimate' discussions on the mysteries of proto-Jupiter and its diluted core.

Johnny, you owe me one.

Because Optics. Because Scott couldn't actually be seen walking away from the ballroom, as much fun as it was fielding questions from company toadies trying to woo the evening's most bankable stars. If John had been here, he would've pointed out the parallels to the Three Body Problem, and how any two Tracys in any given room exerted enough of a pull to alter the orbit of lesser bodies; and Scott would have to take issue with the use of 'lesser' but only because the primary objective was to rack up enough brownie points to put them squarely on the right side of the press. Get a few good quotes in the papers. Bite-size, easy to repeat. Shake hands. Have your picture taken with the People.

"Mr. Tracy?"

A man had leaned into his view. He was small, nervous, slightly orange from a spray tan gone awry, like he'd tried a bit too hard to get ready for the party.

"Please," the answer was automatic, "call me Scott."

"Scott." The man blushed instinctively. "How's your evening?"

"Great so far. Good to see everyone out and about."

"Forgive me, I'm a bit—I guess you could say I'm a little starstruck." The man smiled, not quite able to look him in the eye. "Your father—Jeff Tracy's contribution to the field—h-his Mars Mission reports were absolutely riveting." The man held out his hand for a clammy handshake. "Doppler Gazette. We're a smaller publishing house. Have you heard of us?"

The name did sound familiar. "Possibly."

"I don't blame you if you haven't. Let me tell you, I was as surprised as anyone to get the invitation. We don't exactly tip the scales, if you know what I mean."

Scott smiled, hoping it would help ease the nerves. "I think it was unanimously agreed the Summit should be more inclusive. Avoid the pitfalls of collective navel-gazing and all that. Tends to slow progress when we only listen to the select few."

"Say, that's—that's really something. Can I quote you on that?" He fumbled for something in his pocket. "I-if that's all right with you."

Scott nodded, patiently waiting for the man to find his bearings. "Take your time."

The man pulled a notepad from his pocket but couldn't find his pen. "I seem to have misplaced my…uh…"

Scott pulled his own pen from his breast pocket and held it out. "Here. Use mine."

The man blushed impossibly brighter beneath the orange, accepting the help, suddenly reminiscent of Brains and his scattered, half-attention to social cues. "You know, I just finished Last Call for Mars. Lee Taylor is an amazing writer. That part with the ripped fuel line and the oxygen patch—positively hair-raising."

"Yeah, it was a close one."

"Jeff Tracy's the man I'd call if I were ever in a tight spot."

Scott contemplated telling him Uncle Lee was having a signing at Vroman's next month, but that might be too much excitement for the little guy. "I'll be sure to pass that along."

The man flipped open his notepad to a blank page, jotting something down. "Summit opened to more voices…collective…navel-gazing. I can't tell you how grateful I am for this, Mr. Tracy. Just a few more questions, and I'll be out of your hair. You know—I have to tell you, Mr—" he caught himself the second time, "Scott, I'm just impressed with Tracy Industries track record for the human element. I heard you're actually taking on new recruits. Seems to be the opposite of where most other businesses are going, doesn't it?"

A pretty standard question, and not one Scott hadn't already answered a few times this evening. "It's all part of the motto. Tracy Industries is nothing without its people." He'd said that enough times today for it to end up in print somewhere. "And I can assure the sentiment isn't nostalgia. These are workers filling positions we feel can't be automated. And if a role does seem to be heading towards obsoletion, we prefer to upgrade our workers with the necessary skillset to supersede their previous function, rather than just let them go. It's what my father would call a non-negotiable."

"Admirable." Doppler wrote that down. "Non-negotiable. And that's what you're doing in LA? Working for the family company?"

Scott tried to remember what bits of information were available to the public. Not much, considering the stack of NDAs he'd had to sign regarding any test flights in a desert far, far away. But working for Dad was probably the least that could be inferred. "More or less."

"And your brother?"

"Excuse me?"

"John? I have it on good authority he's joined the ranks, so to speak."

Scott was careful not to shift his posture. John wasn't listed in the company details. He wasn't part of any scene in LA, underground or otherwise. He went to work and he came home, and sometimes—if he was feeling unorthodox—he'd go to Sully's with his big-brain boss. John was a ghost. Or he had been, right up until Robin Locke and The Buzz. "Well, it was always in the books for us take an interest in the work." That wasn't answering the question. "Dad's just happy to have us here, so nothing's really set in stone."

"My understanding is that he's been interning at the lab."

Scott felt the smallest sliver of unease slip through the defense. "Yes." Denial would be worse than admission. "It's to cultivate that—I'd guess you'd call it a holistic understanding of the company. Start from the bottom, work your way up." If not for the very specific reason John was in LA, it might have actually been something Dad would have suggested. "If you catch my drift."

"A work ethic we can all get behind." Doppler jotted something down again in his notebook. "Though perhaps it isn't the best in excess."

"Excuse me?"

"I need you to help me understand something." Doppler paused, looking up at him. "I read the papers, like anyone else. And I've been looking into a few things."

Okay.

"I'll do my best to answer any questions."

"You have quite the service record, Scott." Doppler's nervousness seemed to have faded some. "Lots of medals. Lots of promotions. And one could say John is well on his own way to greatness."

"I think we all hope so."

"But—from everything I've gathered—there are some discrepancies in how he spent his time in Harvard."

It was like the floor tilted, a sudden rush of blood to the head, and Scott felt a cold suspicious scuttle up his spine. The man's glasses, the nerves, the spray tan. It felt like a ruse somehow, a carefully planned schema, all the imperfections fitting together in an image—the obsequious little pencil pusher so harmless in his flattery, the disarming template of a man bland enough to slip back into the crowd, unnoticed.

"Discrepancies?" Scott forced a smile. "Not to out my brother or anything, but if he did something more interesting than just set the record for most consecutive hours spent in the Special Collections division at the library—then I'd be slightly impressed."

"I've been informed John withdrew early."

"You have?"

"An inside source." A reptilian slow blink. "You know how it is. People talk." His pen was poised over the notepad. "I did think it sounded odd. Leaving so close to graduation." He waited, and that's when Scott saw it—the certainty written in his eyes: the way he was going to play this, all his assumptions written down, ready for publishing, and this was just a shot across the bow to see who'd flinch.

Scott wasn't about to flinch. "Yes. That would be odd."

"You do seem surprised to hear this. Should I just put you down for an unconditional denial of events?"

"Yes, I'm sorry. It seems you've been misled."

The man clicked the nib back into the pen and held it out to Scott. "That's a relief to hear, actually. The virtue of a good name restored." He smiled again. "Wouldn't want to go breaking a perfectly good thing, now would we?"

Scott took the pen. "No, we wouldn't."

The man tucked his notebook back into his pocket and held out his hand to shake. "Thank you for taking the time."

Scott's mouth felt dry, a bitter film over his tongue. He could see John, after Harvard, pale and thin and close to breaking all over again. John in the mornings, when twelve hours of sleep hadn't made him any less tired, and getting up and going to work was more of a grind that it should have been. John and his stupid box of Harvard relics he'd pushed to the back of the closet, as if he'd thought Scott wouldn't see, wouldn't ask, just like before when big brother had been off in another time zone and too fucking dense to notice his family falling apart. Scott could feel the panic press in, the ballroom crystallizing in that moment, a crack fractaling across a glassy silence, and he remembered Kyrano—suit and tie and earpiece to added security—and the future unfolded in a single, predetermined path for anyone who tried to fuck with John Tracy.

Scott shook the man's hand. "Any day."

If you're enjoying this story, I'd love to know your thoughts. :)