Well, the last one was a little short...

5

Like everyone else in the brave new world of 2065, Gordon Tracy had an ID chip implanted just below the skin on the back of his left wrist. It transmitted constantly, informing the ubiquitous sensor posts and law enforcement officers of his age, sex, health and location together with his financial, employment and legal status. It would have been a genuine bother but for two things- first, Brains' cleverly designed wrist comms could block the signal at the touch of a button, and second, the chip's systems were hackable, if one was a pro. John had already altered the device's memory so that Gordon had a new destination, an international driver and pilot's license, and was now a lordly eighteen years old.

Getting out of the European Union was easy; flying across the Atlantic and into American air space, simpler still. It was signing Alan out of Los Angeles Senior High School that just about sent Gordon around the bend. It was Alan's third school in as many months, and there Gordon faced a bored fourth year girl with a "not my problem" attitude and a truly diabolical adherence to school policy.

"I'm on the sign out list," he explained again, as patiently as possible, under the circumstances. "Check... your... computer!"

"I'm sorry, I need a written notice," the girl declared once more, utterly implacable. "No notice, no student... 'Mr. Tracy'."

"Fine. Give me some paper and I'll write the blasted note myself!"

She shook her head, slowly twirling a strand of fried-blonde hair around one forefinger.

"Sorry. The notice must be sent in advance. And not from the comm bank around the corner, either." This last, as an idea had visibly flashed across Gordon's mind. Green eyes narrowing suspiciously, she said, "Are you sure you're eighteen years old!"

For the third time, Gordon held out his left hand, palm down. The desk scanner beeped once, read his altered ID chip, and displayed the results. Again.

"Hmm... Gordon David Tracy," the girl read slowly. "Date of birth: 14 February, 2047. Residence of record... two: Free States of Polynesia and European Union... Known relatives: Jeffery Connal Tracy, Lucinda Sorren Tracy (deceased), Scott Aaron Tracy, John Matthew Tracy, Virgil Edward Tracy and Alan Rivers Tracy."

"There!" Gordon snapped pouncing upon the last name she'd read. "It's all in order! He's my brother, f'r God's sakes. I'm not tryin' t' steal him! Now, I don't mean t' be rude, Miss, but I haven't time f'r anymore of your nonsense. This is an emergency! Just call him up, let me sign him out, and I'll leave you t' stamp y'r forms in peace. Got it?" He pointed at himself. "Sign," (then down the hall) "Brother," (then toward the door) "Out!"

She didn't appreciate the sarcasm. "I'm really, very sorry," the desk girl told him, her sweetness more poisonous than ever, "but now I need two notes. One from you, posted this morning, and another from Alan's..."

"Mum! His mum! That's it!" Slamming a hand down on the office video phone, Gordon said triumphantly, "Call Gennine Rivers, (I've got 'er number, if you haven't) and let me talk t' her!"

Clearly miffed and unwilling, the office troll punched in the number, glaring at Gordon the entire time. Gennine picked up on the second ring. She looked worried, and not just because Alan had merited in-school suspension again, either.

"Gordon! Hi, Sweetie. I kind of thought... I've been watching the news...,"

"Good afternoon, Ms. Rivers," he replied, all politeness, suddenly. "You've heard? Right. I'm tryin' to sign Alan out, but they won't release him to me. Would you please tell the bleached-hair brick wall, over there, that I'm not going t' sell him, or anything!"

Gennine smiled despite herself. She was past her first youth, but still pretty in a delicate, Nordic fashion. Her long hair was ash blonde and straight, parted in the exact center. Her eyes were intensely blue, and rather sad. She and Jeff Tracy had been married once, and although it hadn't lasted, it was clear why Jeff had made the attempt; her resemblance to Lucinda was startling. Gordon knew his birth mother only from family pictures, but Gennine made a comforting stand-in, at times.

Now she said, pulling at one loose, floaty sleeve of her blouse, "Gordon, believe it or not, I'm worried, too. Virgil and Scott were my sons for awhile, even if they never much cared to admit it." She sighed deeply. "Honestly, I expected a call before this."

Clearly fighting the urge to cry, Gennine compressed her lips; managed to say firmly, "Yes, you may sign him out. Anita, he has my permission. Call Alan from class now, if you please. But, Gordon...," her voice dropped to a whisper then, and her blue eyes seemed to drill straight into him. "Take care of your brother. I trust you to see that he comes back safe... that all of you do. Okay? Promise?"

Gordon nodded seriously. "Yes, Ma'am. My word on it. I'll bring him back t' you in one piece, or I won't come back m'self. Swear."

"Well," she replied, smiling tremulously, "since I don't like option B, I'm going to hold you to the first part. Look out for him, and for yourself. I love you both."

With an abrupt, emotional wave of her many-ringed hand, Gennine cut off the transmission. Moments later, Alan came bounding around the corner, a ripped-up book bag bouncing on one shoulder.

"Hey, Bro!" He called out, a little breathlessly, "what's up?"

Without another word to the 'watcher-at-the-desk', Gordon turned and headed for the door. He was impatient to be gone, having wasted far too much time already. "I'm signin' you out," he told his grinning brother (Alan had just given the girl a jaunty wave, calling out, "Peace!" and adding a little extra swagger to his walk for the sake of his audience.)

"I can see that! And hey, Man, as always, thanks for springing me! They had me on campus clean-up detail with the custodians... and, crap, this is a trashy dang school! They gave me gloves, but still...! Oh, and the essay? Primo! I got an 'A'. You saved my life!"

Alan puffed out his round cheeks and pushed a little tiredly at his own gel-stiffened blond hair. He showed his fourteen years in every attention-seeking fiber of his being; from the loud shirt, to the saggy pants, to the diamond earring.

"Seriously, Man, I can't afford to fail... well, anything! Dad'd bust my butt, and Mom would cry. Really, I don't know which is worse, sometimes... Anyway, what's with the great escape?" Glancing around them, Alan lowered his voice and lifted one eyebrow dramatically. "Has Dad decided to let me go out on a ... project?"

Gordon stopped walking just outside the school's scanner-packed entrance.

"You've not heard, then?"

"Um... heard what? You know I have to keep this thing," he flicked a careless finger against his wrist comm, "turned off. If it beeps in school the Dragon Lady'll confiscate it, and I know darn well Brains is getting sick and tired of making me new ones... What! Gordon, what is it?"

His older brother and best friend had by this time started walking again, unusually grim. They crossed the parking lot, Alan growing more baffled and annoyed by the moment. Gordon dug beneath his rugby jersey and into his left shorts pocket for the keys. Indicating the back of the yellow jeep with a quick jerk of his thumb, he said,

"Stow y'r kit and get in. I'll explain on the way."

As they pulled out of the parking lot, Gordon started talking. "It's Scott," he said. "He's been..., um... , Someone faked a rescue call and shot him."

Alan's jaw dropped. "Whoa," he breathed, shaking his head. "How bad?"

Gordon shrugged miserably, taking a corner much too fast. "Don't know yet. John's not been able t' make contact f'r hours. There's more." Having to push hard against the concrete in his chest to get the words out, Gordon continued. "They got Virgil, too. Out in Macedonia, somewhere. We're headed back t' the island now t' huddle with John, Brains and TinTin and come up with some kind ofextraction plan."

"Oh, man..., Does Dad know?"

"Brains's been tryin' like mad t' get through to him, but he's at a corporate contracting session, and..."

"Say no more." Alan cupped his chin in one hand and stared without really seeing at the exclusive, palm-lined neighborhood they were racing past. Their father's two gripping passions these days were the corporation, Tracy Aerospace, and International Rescue. As a father... he made a hell of a C.E.O.

The sudden, loud blast of a horn made Alan sit up a little. "Gordon, man, you're speeding! Slow down before you kill us!"

"You worry too much. I know what I'm doin'." Reaching up, Gordon pressed a button on the rearview mirror, half of which instantly became a comm unit. "John!"

"Go ahead, Gordon." Their brother's image flashed up before them, pale and remote. Gordon took a hand off the wheel long enough to indicate his younger sibling.

"Got Alan, and we're headed for Los Angeles International on..., Er... make it... west along Bay Street, yellow Jeep Wrangler."

"Right. I've got you."

"Thanks. Can you give me a heads-up on law enforcement?"

There was a short pause as John glanced aside at another instrument panel. Then,

"Nothing until you reach the interstate, then... about three miles along, there are two police cruisers facing in either direction, hidden among the trees on the median. After that... there's an aircycle officer behind an overpass pylon. That's all I can see until you get to the airport. There, all bets are off. Too much security to risk speeding."

"Got it, John. Thanks again."

With the occasional update from John and his own swift reflexes, Gordon reached the airport in remarkably (not to say dangerously) short time. The Tracys had a number of dedicated parking spots by their own hangar complex. Gordon pulled into the closest space, vaulted from the jeep, and started for one of the hangars, locking up his car with a quick, over-the-shoulder button press.

"Hey," Alan protested, hurrying to keep up. "What about my backpack!"

"Leave it," Gordon told him absently, pressing his left palm against the hangar's scanning pad. "We'll pick it up on the way back."

"What if somebody steals it?"

Gordon glanced at his brother as the hangar access door slid open. "Why would anyone be thick enough t' rifle my car f'r a damn book bag!" He demanded, cutting across the echoing building toward a rather ordinary looking, two-seater, turbo-prop airplane.

"I dunno... It was a pretty good essay. Besides, myIpod and my GameBoy are in there."

"Alan, y' won't be needin' them for a bit, trust me. If they're gone when we get back, you c'n have mine!"

"Okay... but I get your palm pilot and musiccollection, too."

They'd reached the plane by now. Gordon walked around it twice, ticking off the pre-flight checklist on his fingers, like a rosary. Alan keyed open the main hangar doors meanwhile, as his older brother got in, tested a few systems and started her up. He was very surprised, on returning to the plane, to find Gordon in the right seat.

"You're letting me fly out there?"

Gordon looked up from his PDA briefly, saying, "You've forgotten how?"

"NO! No way! I remember everything you showed me, for real!" With a satisfied grunt, Gordon returned to up-loading their flight plan.

"So shut up and fly, then. I need t' concentrate." Usually this meant that Gordon intended to take a quick nap. Most mornings he dragged himself out of bed at 4:30, got in two hours of swimming, went to school, then ended his day with a further two hours of laps before bed time, on top of whatever regular swim team or rugby activities were scheduled. As a result, he was chronically sleep-deprived, always ravenous, and frequently temperamental. He stole naps (and snacks) whenever possible, and was infamous among his brothers for an addiction to caffeine and power bars. This time, though, he really meant to stay awake and work, downloading every scrap of information he could glean from the internet about Macedonia, the Citizens Victory copper mine, and the local terrain.

Privately thrilled to be handed the controls, Alan tried to play it off, cool as though he flew from LA to the island every day. He'd taxied them out of the hangar and over to the end of the runway, asked for and received take-off clearance, and got them into the air before Gordon said a word.

As Alan was about to hit the button that would convert old Tango Bravo 4002 from a battered turbo-prop to one of Brains' doped-up super craft, his brother said,

"I'd call in, first."

"Huh? Oh, yeah..., right. I was just about to do that." Alan felt himself reddening. How could he have forgotten something as simple and basic as keeping under cover?

Touching a button on the instrument panel, Alan cleared his throat. "Um..., John?"

Once again, John's image appeared before them, looking slightly harassed, this time. Alan could just make out a sliver of Hackenbacker's face on the big wall screen behind his space-bound brother.

"Go ahead, Gordon," John snapped out, almost before the screen finished lighting up.

"Ummm..., no. It's me. Alan."

Surprised, John cocked a slender, blond eyebrow. Turning his head a bit to regard Gordon, he said,

"He's flying?"

Gordon shrugged. "I'm busy, and Alan c'n use the practice. Where's the issue?"

"Up to you, I suppose, Gordon. But keep an eye on things." By which he meant, 'don't fall asleep'. Alan, however, took John's comment entirely the wrong way. Flushing to the roots of his hair, the youngest Tracy suddenly lofted his middle finger at the screen.

More alert than he looked, Gordon seized Alan's wrist and slammed the offending hand against an arm rest, but not before the gesture registered.

The temperature in the cockpit seemed to drop a good thirty degrees as John leveled an icy stare at his young half-brother.

"Like I said... keep one hand on the controls, Gordon." Then, all business once more, "I've infected LAX tower control for you. Shadowbot is loaded and ready, whenever you make the conversion."

"F.A.B., John," Gordon responded. "Thanks f'r your help. We'll be home in thirty minutes."

"Right. Fly safe."

When the comm screen darkened, Alan sullenly punched in TB 4002's conversion code. About a dozen subtle, lightning quick alterations took place in the engines and fuselage, increasing the little plane's speed and power beyond anything the FAA would have considered legal, or safe. That done, Alan throttled up, still pouting. Simultaneously, the virus John had uploaded into LA's control tower, known as "shadowbot", erased their actual radar signature and replaced it with a nice, slow, casually puttering doppleganger, effectively disguising their true flight path.

As their airspeed leapt from 300 miles per hour to over 950, Gordon turned on his simmering brother.

"Well, that was about bloody stupid! You want them t' hate you!"

"Why not!" Alan exploded. "They do, anyway! And it's not fair! He didn't tell her about any of this when he married her! She didn't ask to be whipped out on them like some kind of evil replicant step-mom! She never wanted to take Lucy's place any more than I wanted to take yours! But do they care! Do they ever freakin' let me forget about it for a second! Heck, no! They hate me! Not one of them would pee on me if I was on fire!"

Gordon gazed awhile at Alan, a muscle beginning to twitch in one cheek as he fought to keep a straight face

"Well," he said, finally, "John would, after a bit. He'd have t' mull it over first, though."

Still furious, Alan rolled his eyes."Not Scott n' Virgil! They'd just point and laugh!"

"Probably," Gordon chuckled, "...but I'm certain they'd feel badly about it all, later."

"Uh-huh. Sure. So then they'd make up for it by chugging a few beers and hosing down the ashes!"

Gordon had given up the fight to remain serious.Giving his brother an affectionate shove, he said,

"No panic, Alan. I'd pee on you, any day."

Alan grinned at him. "Thanks, man. Nice to know you're there for me. By the way," as a sudden question occurred to him, "What excuse did you give my school?"

"Oh," Gordon responded carelessly, "I told 'em your uncle died."

"Again? That's what you said last month. I must have a butt-load of uncles...,"

"...Barely clingin' t' life, the lot of 'em."

Their silliness continued for a bit, until Gordon recalled why they were headed home in the first place. Barely audible over the engine noise, he murmured, "I hope Virgil and Scott are alright..., Please, God, let 'em still be alive when we get there."

Alan punched him lightly on the shoulder, saying, "Buck up, Bro. The famous Tracy luck hasn't failed us yet, has it?"

Gordon shook his head, managing a crooked little smile.

"Right. Here's hoping, then."