28

R & R, at the Studio-

Always before, after a dangerous rescue mission or difficult training bout, Virgil had managed recovery time his own way; with a long, hot shower followed by napping and plenty of food. In private. Alone. With non-stop music to smother exhaustion and carry off lingering visuals.

Globe Studios wouldn't allow that, of course. Pretty much everything but restroom breaks and shower time was managed by Blaise, their official handler, and one hundred percent caught on film.

Because much of the audience was female, and females enjoyed their hurt/comfort, dozens of camera drones swooped all around the contestants, not only watching the process of wound revelation, but digitally altering images to make every lesion seem worse. Triumph's play-book of "half-naked hotties in danger" paid off, and wouldn't be altered for anyone's protests.

After striding out of their return shuttle and placing that captured blue shard in the team vault, the Tracys had all been rushed off to Medical for strip-down and treatment. Virgil was a mass of bruises and scrapes, plus one minor burn and a twisted ankle. Business as usual, in other words. Alan was all that and heat exhaustion, along with a lump on his wobbly, golden-blond head. Better than Max, whose body was down in the shop, getting repaired and refitted.

John had come through pretty nearly unscathed, thanks to his IR environment suit. Had a scratch on his face near the hairline, but hadn't even felt it. Later editing showed him crisscrossed with bloody gashes and burns, though, because it won audience sympathy.

As for the girls, Kayo had wrenched her left shoulder throwing Captain Rigby to the ground, and Penny was just plain wrung out. Only Grandma had no physical issues to speak of. Hormonal backward aging (in the fine print, whether she liked it or not) had made her much tougher. This was a problem, because Sal had a husband to join, somewhere over the rainbow bridge. Turning fifty again wasn't the way to accomplish that... but nobody here planned to listen. They were too busy stirring up ratings to think about love and forever.

Across the big Med Centre, three pretty nurses descended on Virgil, once he was down to his skivies. Sherie, Ah-Chen and Katerina got the pilot disinfected, bandaged, dosed-up and scrubbed. Not far away, John was receiving the very same treatment, looking awfully confused and uncomfortable. Explaining that he wasn't hurt got the astronaut nothing but shushed by Blaise, their tattooed handler.

"Work with me, Darling!" chirped the blue-haired liaison. "If not for yourself, for the show. Your audience wants drama! Pathos! A way to escape their drab little lives! They want suffering heroes brought back to health with as much bulging flesh on display as possible. So, do us a favour, Copper-top... flex those muscles and try to look injured."

Yeah. John didn't plan to bulge or flex anything. Only, following orders was part of their contract, signed by the World Council in IR's name. Not being a natural actor, he bore up as well as he could, only knowing to flinch and look hurt when one of his nurses gave him a teasing pinch. As for the follow up "healing" massage... the less said, the better.

Al, on the other hand, dug the whole process. Saw himself famous already. Presented his ouchies, bruisies and hurties with genuine swagger; laughing and flirting with all three of his cute, lively nurses.

"Seriously," scoffed the young rescuer. "That was nothing. Now, space missions... that's where the real danger is. Like, just a little while ago, I had a run-in with the dang Mechanic."

…and so on, and so forth. A few yards away, Virgil shook his head, but chose not to butt in. Let the kid have his moment. They'd won the first round, and Al had been part of that victory. Showing up last minute, he and Grandma had brought them all one step closer to wrapping this up. One step closer to home.

Virge couldn't help wondering what the Navy team was doing, though. Especially one particular, very spunky lieutenant. As minutes passed and he grew more relaxed, Emma and food came to dominate the pilot's wandering thoughts.

Kraft, a cold beer and a roast beef sandwich, piled so high on fresh-toasted bread it took two hands and a dislocated jaw to control it. The stuff of dreams, right? Anyhow, Virgil Tracy soon fell asleep to the buzzing hum of camera lights and the sharp smell of liniment, pummeled by three pairs of slim, kneading hands. A guy could get used to this, if he wasn't careful.

Round two would come soon enough. For the moment, he let his guard down and drifted away.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Island Base, on the patio deck-

Elsewhere, on an afternoon of sea breeze and tropical sunshine, Scott Tracy flipped hamburgers on the grill, sniffing appreciatively each time a drop of grease hit those burning hot coals and exploded. Gordon zipped in and out of the house, meanwhile, managing drinks and dessert. Lee had been placed in charge of potato salad and 5-alarm Texas chilli.

Hovering at the edge of things, Brains looked nervous and queasy. As a vegan, he didn't much care for Tracy-style cookouts. Would have been better off "Turned loose ta graze" as Lee put it. But hey... there was plenty of lettuce. Pickles, too. Better still, Gordon was piling up masses of strawberry jam, whipped cream and chocolate chips in a wobbling heap of pure sugar. Something for everyone, right?

Drinks were iced tea, beer and orange juice, placed in buckets and cans that sparkled with condensation, causing big pools on the table. On the other hand, they'd run out of hamburger buns and plain bread, so Captain Taylor stirred up and baked a big tray of fluffy-hot biscuits. Hackenbacker's food replication device gave it a go as well, but so far could only produce thin, spicy gruel (which the others accepted, dumped cheese in, and used as a vegetable dip)

They even had music. The only thing missing was everyone else, and a dog. Once all of that food was laid on the table... Once Lee had got through his rambling blessing... the boys settled down to the serious business of eating. It was then that Scott missed a cold nose and patient nudge under the table; a furry vacuum for petting and scraps. Someone to jog with and hug, when there just weren't words for what he'd been through.

The pilot was on his third cheeseburger, half listening to Gordon and Lee as they argued the best approach for putting out underground coal fires.

"Collapse the d*mn thing an' then flood 'er," claimed their uncle, grinning as he leaned way back in his chair. "'s what y'r daddy an' me done back in '57."

"With all due respect, screw that, Sir!" Gordon shot back. "I'm using Thunderbird 2 and the Mole to drill down and ring it with oxygen-sappers. Let's see your coal burn without air!"

But Lee had an answer for that.

"Ain't always about y'r technology, Godfrey," explained the old astronaut, waving his beer till it sloshed. "Sometimes it's jus' plain skills an' a good head f'r where ta strike."

Surprisingly, Brains chimed in then, saying,

"I b- believe that my, ah... my r- replication device, if, ah... if p- properly amplified, could generate s- sufficient retardant to, ah... to d- douse a large blaze."

Abashed at his own boldness, the engineer hid from attention by ducking his head to sketch diagrams on an unfolded napkin, muttering equations like magical spells. Scott set down his own drink and smiled a little.

"Tell you what, Brains," he said. "You come up with a safe, reliable foam replicator, and we'll find a way to deliver and test it."

Hackenbacker looked up. Opened his mouth to reply, only to get cut off by a shrill and blaring alarm. Sheer music to Scott, who made one h*ll of a lousy bystander. Fighting a grin, the pilot barked,

"Alcohol detox tablets for all personnel, then back to the ring in five minutes, suited up and ready to go. Move!"

No sense wasting an emergency, after all, whether back out in space, under the water or deep below ground. Just had to get airborne before the GDF scrambled, or Colonel Casey gave the no-go. Just had to get back in his cockpit.