Holding Up The Sky - Thuban

(Four)

31, December, 2064

Ridge Farm, South Barre, MA

USA

At precisely 1400 McQueen pulled his rental car into Ridge Farm. He had made exceptionally good time on the way down from Deer Isle and had enjoyed the drive. He opened the trunk of the car and began to unload his gear. Kylen's father, Frank, called from the kitchen door.

"Colonel, Kylen is over at the Wests', she'll be back momentarily. They always try to keep her. Leave the bags and come in out of the cold. One of the boys will get those for you. That's why we have so many children in this house. "

McQueen stopped what he was doing. "I guess that rank does have its privileges even here," he thought. He pulled a long cylinder out of the trunk. As he made his way to the door, Emrys and Allston passed him. McQueen searched his memory for their respective callsigns - nicknames. They were Push and Skye, which Kylen had told him offhandedly, was short for Sky King, as if that had been enough of an explanation. It hadn't been. McQueen still didn't get the reference.

"What do you what us to bring in?" one of the boys asked on the way past.

"Both bags. Be careful with the big one."

Frank held the door open and gave McQueen a hearty clap on the back as the man entered the warmth of the Celina kitchen. Eithne gave him a weak smile and waved from her spot at the table. Bridee trotted in from the keeping room and gave him a quick little hug for which he was unprepared and with which he fumbled a bit, but she smiled warmly up into his face nonetheless. "I'll take your coat," she said.

"Where do we put this stuff?" Emrys asked, entering the room with a barracks bag. Allston followed with a beatup old seabag, which was half filled.

"Aislen's room," Bridee piped up. The boys looked to their father, who nodded the affirmative. Bridee was obviously irritated that they hadn't believed her straight off, and flounced back into the keeping room.

"Leave the seabag," McQueen almost ordered, but tempered his tone just in time. "It's the big one," he added. "These kids wouldn't know what a seabag was if it hit them over the head."

"It's been you doing the fly-bys. It's been you, hasn't it?" Allston asked.

"Kylen told us you were good, but the cows didn't even blink an eye. How did you manage to do that? To keep the sound so quiet?"

"That's my job," McQueen said reasonably. "Infiltration - that's the point. We try to be a quiet as we can." McQueen was relieved and satisfied. He hadn't wanted to spook the livestock and had been a bit worried.

McQueen had been busy the last three weeks. He had flown down to Loxley, visited with Glen's kids, seen the shrink and turned in his final fitness report. He had gotten his driver's license updated, had been requalified to fly the ISSCV, ISSAPC and the VS-53 Tarpon VTOL in simulators, and had managed to log in a few hours of flight time. Getting into a Hammerhead was out of the question - at least on Earth - so he didn't even try to talk anyone into that. When he had returned to Maine on the day after Christmas the first thing he had done was to hump on up to Brunswick Naval Air Station and put in for flight time.

The young flight instructor who had gone up with McQueen for his flights had been more than worried about buzzing the farm and hadn't known quite how to temper McQueen's actions. First of all the Commander had given this Colonel the freedom of the base and had asked that he be given every assistance. Then one had to consider the fact that the guy was not a naval officer but a Marine - and everyone knew how they could be. And this Full Bird wore a black flightsuit with patches from both the 58th and the 127th squadrons. The Colonel vastly outranked the flight instructor and within five minutes it was obvious that he was the better pilot. When McQueen had checked in with the tower using the callsign "Queen Six' the instructor had decided that it would be in his own best interest to keep his mouth shut and go along for the ride. McQueen had blown the guy's socks off.

"I 'borrowed' the flight instructor out of Brunswick, Maine. Had to requalify. Gotta get my time in. I don't want to lose the flight pay," McQueen told the Celina tribe.

"I wondered where the planes had come from," Frank remarked. "The flight pay is the least of this man's concerns. He just wants to be up in the sky," Frank thought, and it made him smile. He admired a man with dedication.

"I have something for you," said McQueen, gesturing with the cylinder he still held in his hand. "Is there someplace we can spread these out?"

Frank led the way to the dining room table, and in moments the Colonel had unrolled a series of maps. McQueen had printed out all the reconnaissance scans he had shot during his flights over the farm - topographical, heat signatures, structures, and general subsurface to the depth of two meters.

"I could have gotten deeper scans ... water, metallurgy, composition of the bedrock ... but the only way to look deeper with the equipment available here is to set off subsonic or sonic charges. I can get it done. Could do it myself. Requalification can cover a variety of activities, as I've discovered." He gave his almost smile, and Frank was left to wonder what T.C. McQueen had been up to. "But I wanted to check with you first. I knew I could do this much without spooking the cattle. The other scans? Well, they should be ok, but I wanted to get your permission. Here are the specs." McQueen handed the older man a small folder.

Frank was astonished. McQueen had just laid out on the dining room table maps and scans that would be outrageously expensive. The technology wasn't classified, but it was markedly restricted. He wondered momentarily why the Marine had done it - risked it.

The Celina family had worked on the periphery of the InVitro Rights movement since the thirties: Never on the front lines, but never at the rear. In the early years Frank had hired a series of InVitros to help at the farm. The first one had been a bit of a disappointment and had left with almost no warning. The second and third had worked out extremely well, staying for years before moving on. Both had gone to work at one of the big corporate farms for better pay and benefits. One had even become a foreman: There had been Christmas cards from him for several years. Kylen only had the dimmest memories of those days. Frank was hit with a very clear memory of an InVitro Rights rally on the university campus years ago. A memory of Kylen in her stroller clapping her hands while the speeches went on. Karin had been pregnant with Emrys. The older children must have been in the daycare center. It had been late spring. There had been sunshine and flowers. Frank wondered if McQueen was already working in the mines at that time - or if he had even been born then - while Frank and Karin's daughter had held lilac sprigs in her chubby little hands and had played in the sunshine.

Frank then realized that T.C. McQueen, the InVitro, probably hadn't known what else to give him - to give the family. The gift was something that McQueen could do and do well. Something that would be useful and hopefully appreciated. McQueen's presentation of the maps had been very professional - all business. But Frank now felt that there was perhaps the tiniest undercurrent of eagerness - almost a desire to please on a personal level. Maybe. Perhaps. He understood that this was one of the few times that McQueen had made this sort of gesture and it was as if, underneath it all, McQueen wanted Kylen's father to be proud of him. Frank was proud of him - and for him. McQueen had given him a gift that was far more valuable than just the maps.

"Thank you, son," Frank spoke softly as he shook McQueen's hand. The use of the term had unknowingly reinforced his position in T.C. McQueen's unconscious. Officers in the Marine Corps frequently used the term 'son' when addressing subordinates - no matter what their age. It was another custom of the Corps: It was part of the rhythm of McQueen's life.

"You're welcome, Sir," McQueen responded. "It really was my pleasure." He gave Frank a small smile. McQueen had indeed enjoyed the exercise, and Frank seemed to honestly appreciate it.

Frank wanted to clear the air between McQueen and himself. There was an unspoken tender subject between the two that he felt should be addressed and the sooner the better.

"I have to tell you that I attempted to talk Kylen out of this Marine Corps job," Frank admitted.

McQueen looked distinctly uncomfortable. "I did too, you know. At first I tried to persuade her against it, " he said. In truth, he had half expected to be met at the door of the farm by Frank with a shotgun in hand.

Frank nodded and spoke. "She told me. She also said to trust her. That she had good reasons."

"She does. I'm still not thrilled with it, Sir, but she does have her reasons. Good reasons," McQueen could at least give Frank that much.

Frank felt better now that the subject had been broached and disposed of.

"Loved the air show." Frank admitted honestly and smiled openly.

"The VS-53 VTOL? The Tarpon. It's a good aircraft," McQueen responded. Typically, he thought of the capabilities of the plane and not of his own skills as a pilot. McQueen turned back to the maps. "There are some things here that I'd like to show you."

As the two men began to look over the maps Kylen's brothers and sisters drifted into the room one by one. Curiosity over the Colonel's gift to their father and fear of being left out of the loop had gotten the better of even Eithne. She had been known to break into Scarlet O'Hara whenever the War was brought up. "War, war, war. All this talk of war is spoiling all the barbecues." Several good-natured bets had been placed as to if she had the nerve to say such a thing in front of 'the Rookie', which, after Thanksgiving, was what most members of the family called McQueen behind his back. Like her sister, Eithne's head did not screw on and off. As much as she had a personal antipathy for anything military - after all, the ballet was closing to support the war effort: The Cause' - as she now called it. Eithne was not about to poke a stick at the tiger.

When Kylen returned from luncheon with Nathan's parents she heard voices coming from the dining room. One of them was McQueen's. Without removing her coat she moved toward the room. Standing in the doorway, she saw the resident family members all grouped around the table. Kylen counted heads. McQueen and her father were reviewing maps. Her brothers and sisters were concentrating, studying the work, and listening to the two men, leaning in and occasionally making comments. Colonel McQueen did not look precisely like one of the group, standing a little apart, everyone respecting his personal space, but it seemed natural and somehow right that he should be there. It was, Kylen supposed, part of Door Number Two - the Commander. McQueen was secure and comfortable in the leadership role. He wore the mantle effortlessly. "God doesn't give us the gift of leadership for ourselves. It is a gift he gives us for others," she thought.

From her spot leaning on the doorframe between the kitchen and the dining room she watched her family and McQueen deal with one another. It was an interesting tableau.

"Home is the sailor. Home from the sea," McQueen said softly without looking up. He somehow knew that she had come home - had entered the area.

"The Hunter is home from the hill," she responded. Her family looked up and made their hellos. Now dividing into smaller groups, each with its own map, they spread out around the table.

"Came see what the Rook... What Colonel McQueen gave Dad," Ewan called from the far side of the table. Whatever it was, Kylen recognized that her family was deeply interested. McQueen briefly looked up at her, making eye contact and giving her a small smile.

"Let me see," Kylen said as she crossed to the table, stood beside McQueen and put one arm around his waist, giving him a squeeze. McQueen did not respond in kind, but Frank noticed that the man leaned into the pressure Kylen placed upon him - that he seemed to relax in her presence.

"Robert Louis Stevenson," she whispered, pretending to be interested in the maps. McQueen looked down at her and smiled with obvious pleasure.

Kylen was looking down, her hair half hiding her face, but she watched McQueen through her hair. "Sailor?" she whispered, questioning him with mild sarcasm.

"It's what came to mind," McQueen admitted, mildly amused with himself.

Kylen gave him a second squeeze and then turned her attention to the map in earnest.

"What is this?" McQueen asked, pointing to an indistinct area on the map in front of them.

"Oh, that is 'Dozer's dream,'" she said. "Connor's doctoral project. I'll take you out there tomorrow." And then she whispered to him: "I talked to Nathan last night."

McQueen felt momentarily uncomfortable: If he had known - if he had been there - he could have given them more time. McQueen still had forty minutes of communication time built up. Until recently he had had over seventy minutes. He had stopped selling it off after the final payment on the Harley, and had begun to bank it for reasons he couldn't begin to explain. Last week he had used a half-hour. He had taken a run over to Louisiana and had finally visited Glen's family. He had managed to have the luck of the draw and had been there when Glen had checked in with the holiday phone call from the Saratoga. Knowing that Glen was available, McQueen had called him back on the secured channel, letting the kids talk for another twenty minutes and then taking ten minutes for himself. If McQueen had come to visit the farm a day earlier he could have given Kylen more time.... Maybe he could have talked to his Kids himself.

"We've got to talk," he whispered to Kylen.

"No shit," she mouthed silently, but she gave him a smile.

"It must have gone pretty well," McQueen thought.

End chapter four