To Barb, Agent Five, Opal Girl, Tikatu, Findal and other friends, "Hi!" and "Sorry so slow". I plead team meetings, conferences, a weekly class, lifeand sheer exhaustion...
3
Last bit before lift off:
Cindy Taylor could have driven to work (in theory), or taken a cable car, but San Francisco's lovely hills were murder on her inherited heap of a Mini Cooper, and she rather enjoyed the early morning walk.
Without makeup, her dark hair caught back in a plaid 'scrunchy', wearing sweat pants, a tank top and windbreaker, Cindy didn't much resemble what she thought of as her 'broadcast self'. In fact, striding up the long hills and jog-walking down them, she seemed very like any other health-conscious professional, back-packing gear and clothing to the office.
This particular morning was cool and misty, the sun having not yet thrown off the covers. Sea birds mewed plaintively from the ocean, seeming to plead with the occasional, bellowing ship horn. Familiar sounds, but beautiful still, part and parcel of the golden, ocean-side city she'd adopted many years before.
It felt good to be back, though she missed Scott the same way she'd have missed breathing. He and his mixed-up family made it impossible to quite go back to business as usual.She was trying, though.
A little over halfway to the office, still in the Outer Sunset, Cindy stopped at an intersection, caught by a sluggish light on Taraval Street. The 'don't walk' sign winked redly through tattered mist, so she waited, despite the fact that there wasn't really any traffic. More or less patiently, Cindy used the brief pause to stretch a bit, and catch her breath.
A woman living alone in the city develops certain instincts. When two plainly dressed men approached her, one on either side, Cindy alerted immediately. She stepped away along the sloping sidewalk, out of between them. With newly razor-heightened senses, she noticed street security cameras, a burly young man out walking a string of excited dogs... and a beige sedan rolling quietly up the street toward her position.
The man on the left, swarthy and tense, reached a hand out, attempting to seize her arm. At the same time, all in freeze-frame jerky images, the sedan pulled to a halt directly ahead, and the dog walker picked up his pace, the assorted pets growling and nipping at one another.
Cindy evaded the grab, mostly. A hard hand closed shut on her sleeve, attempting to pull her around. The other man, taller, with a prominent nose and muddy-brown hair, said firmly,
"Get in the car, Ma'am."
"Like hell!" She responded, loudly enough to be picked up by the pole-mounted security monitors.
"Ma'am," he insisted quietly, as his companion maneuvered behind her, "this is an official matter,and I strongly suggest that you..."
Once again, Cindy side-stepped, conscious of a wildly pounding heart and tingling limbs. Adrenaline. With a quick lunge, she stomped her foot down, hard, on the darker man's instep. Something cracked, and he hopped away, hissing between crooked teeth.
"...And I strongly suggest you shove it up your butt!" She replied, reaching inside her jacket for a can of mace. "I'm not going anywhere out of camera range! You want to do something, do it right here in public, or back the hell off, before I kick them up through the roof of your mouth!"
The dogs had begun barking and snarling, straining forward on their leashes; one big, quarrelsome lump with many heads, like Cerberus.
"You okay, Miss?" The young dog walker called out. "Need any help?"
The paler man gave her a single, fuming look, then seized hold of his injured compatriot anddove for the waiting car. From somewhere far away, but wending nearer, a siren started up. Law enforcement, at last.
The sedan squealed off through the fog, vanishing over hill and around a corner before she could quite get the plate number. CS-22... something.
Suddenly shaky and weak, Cindy looked around for the dog walker, to thank him, but he, too, had vanished. Nothing to see but the blank stare of darkened shop windows and the slow blush of emerging paint colors. A late reaction hit, and she started to shiver, wondering what would have happened had they managed to wrestle her into the car.
Tracy Island:
Saying good-by to the others was harder, and took some doing. Penelope kept him quite busy, seeming determined to wear him out so thoroughly that no one, crew mate, or otherwise, would stir his interest until well after he'd reached Earth again.
Scott was full of advice (very little of it applicable to space flight, but John listened, anyway), andVirgil surprised him with an old-fashioned leather bound journal. Weight was very much a consideration aboard ship; he'd have to sacrifice something else to bring along the journal, but Virgil's gift would not be left behind. From Gordon and Alan he got a gold 'Marvin the Paranoid Android' lapel pin, and a solemn oath to behave themselves until his return... ("For real!")
Grandma was her usual busy, no-nonsense self, only just a little more likely to rest a hand on his shoulder as she served up dinner, or needlessly straightened his collar.
"You be sure and eat, out there," the old lady ordered sternly, "and keep your weapon handy. Never know what you might run into."
He promised.
Altogether, the farewells took three days, feeling at once terribly rushed, and unending. Then, when the time came at last, his father flew with him to Cape Kennedy, saying good-by with a handshake and a quick, awkward embrace.
As they stood apart again, the elder Tracy said,
"When you get back, Son, we'll have a lot to talk about."
John nodded.
"Yes, Sir."
And then, he shouldered his carry-on bag and headed for the little terminal. At the door, something made him turn just a bit, looking over one shoulder. His father was still beside the jet, watching, so he lifted a hand.
Jeff Tracy returned his son's wave with a proudsmile, watching until John stepped through the sliding doors, and away.
After that, John's life became much simpler, and laser-focused; prepare for the mission, bond with the rest of the crew, and wait impatiently for launch. There were endless medical, stress and psych tests, and a bout of minor preventative surgery ( just the tonsils- he'd had his appendix removed in childhood). There were release forms to fill out, official pictures to take, and procedure manuals to memorize. Simulator flight time, equipment handling and physical training took up the rest of what often seemed to be 18-hour days. Despite Grandma's words, John would have forgotten to eat, if his meals hadn't been scheduled.
He and the rest of the crew, when not sequestered at the beach house, ended up doing a great many interviews and press conferences. Elementary schools, Rotary Club meetings, congress... seemingly every and anyone with an agenda and a checkbook. So, it was with genuine relief that he attended the final press event, at three weeks to launch, in one of the Cape's larger auditoriums.
The Ares III crew were seated at a long table, Pete first, then Roger Thorpe, Linda Bennett, Kim Cho and John. Behind them hung a blue curtain emblazoned with the NASA logo, and a giant mock-up of their mission patch.
(Pete's suggestion for the motto, "There goes the neighborhood", had been rejected in favor of "To boldly go", but they still used the other in private.)
Gene Porter was present, together with a number of silver-tongued NASA spokesmen. The press sat in theatre-style seats, about half-filling the big room. Not a bad turnout, all things considered. Cindy Taylor was there, too, which surprised him just a bit; she wasn't WNN's usual space program correspondent..., but perhaps it had been a slow news day.
All the camera lights exacerbated a dull tension headache, which John did his best to hide, looking positive, bold and motivated; or trying to. The questions flew thick and fast.
To Roger: "So, what's it like, representing most of Earth's population on this mission?"
Captain Roger Thorpe was a US Marine, a descendent of the great Chesty Puller, and so culturally braided that he usually just wrote "All of the above" on racial census forms. The big, swarthy young man leaned forward, grinning broadly.
"As living proof that we can 'all just get along', I'm real proud to be bringing the world, and the Corps, to Mars."
The assembled reporters chuckled, more cameras flashed, and then Newsweek had a question for Linda Bennett.
"Dr. Bennett," the smartly dressed reporter began, her expression thin-lipped and self righteous, "What do you think of the requirement that female crew members receive contraceptive shots whose long-term effects on a woman's reproductive system aren't fully understood?"
Linda was brown-haired and slim, in her early forties, and she'd long since given up marriage and family in pursuit of her career; space medicine. She didn't much like holier-than-thou puppy feminists taking NASA to task over the harsh realities faced by a professional female astronaut, though.
"Ms..., Jennings..., is it? Right. Like it or not, Ms. Jennings, the trip to Mars and back is extremely long, and well out of Earth's magnetic field. Each one of us," and she gazed around at the rest of the crew, frowning just a bit, "understands the risks posed by radiation while en route, and on Mars itself, which has no protective field. We could all be at higher risk of cancer, or future sterility. Nobody knows, yet. I've taken the contraceptive, just like Dr. Kim, because I don't want to be bothered with a menstrual period, or any possibility of a hazardous, unwanted pregnancy. I'm a practical woman, Ms. Jennings, or I wouldn't be here. I accept the sacrifices, and the risks, with a clear conscience. Hope that answers your question."
Newsweek sat down, looking decidedly vexed. Evidently, she'd hoped for a bit more pathos. The Discovery Channel had sent a representative, who directed his question at Kim Cho.
"Dr. Kim," he asked, after being acknowledged by the NASA rep, "as the team's exo-biologist, what will you be looking for on Mars? And what do you think of the anti-seeding, 'Keep Mars for the Martians' controversy?"
Kim (her surname, actually, though to American ears it sounded better than 'Cho', so that's what they called her) was petite; a second-generation Korean-American working on her third PhD, with black hair, tilted eyes and a constant, vague frown. She nodded slightly, saying,
"I will use established protocols to search for native life forms, below ground, and at the site of the nearest methane seeps. My time will be fully occupied, as there are more places to search, Sir, than there is time to accomplish all that I wish to do. To your other question, I can only say that humanity must ultimately expand beyond Earth, and that Mars, as the next likely step, is being prepared for our arrival. Everything possible will be done to ensure that our cyanobacteria will not drive their Martian counterparts to extinction."
Then, Dr. Kim signaled the end of her response with another brief nod, looking down at her folded hands. Now Cindywaved ahand, and was recognized. She stood, looked at John, and fired off a truly startling broadside.
"Thanks, Floyd. My question is directed at John Tracy. Mr. Tracy, you're... what..? 23 years old? A civilian, with only a few satellite repair and moon station resupply missions under your belt, and yet you were selected for Ares III over hundreds of more qualified candidates. Did your father's wealth and business contacts influence NASA's choice, do you think?"
He hadn't expected that; in fact, perhaps out of kindly conspiracy, no one had ever suggested the possibility that Jeff Tracy had bought his son's way aboard. Pete glanced over, more than ready to handle the question, but John waved him back.
"Miss Taylor, this is a vital mission," he said. "A great deal of money, and four other lives, hinge on the capabilities of each one of us. Everyone here is qualified. Even me."
"I did some digging," Cindy went on, ignoring the NASA spokesman's efforts to signal someone else, "...and I discovered that your father's 'charitable donations' to NASA have more than doubled since you were named to the crew. That's sheer coincidence, is it..., Mr. Tracy?"
He responded coldly, in a voice just loud enough to be heard over the speculative buzz now filling the auditorium,
"Raytheon, General Dynamics, Lockheed-Martin and Tracy Aerospace between them account for over 93 percent of the Jupiter 4 spacecraft, Ms. Taylor, and they all hope to make good on their investments. Everyone's donations have increased. It would be the depth of stupidity to underfund the mission, or to send along unqualified personnel, family connections, or not."
Their gazes locked, blue-violet striking sparks from dark brown, and then Cindy smiled and sat down again, saying,
"Thank you, Mr. Tracy, for clearing that up."
At the post-conference 'meet and greet', Cindy Taylor was decidedly persona non grata, as isolated as an antibiotic disk in a petri plate full of enterobacter. Kind of amusing, actually. Anywhere she moved, people got out of her way, until she finally approached John.
Like the others, he was wearing the royal blue astronaut jump suit with his name plate, the American flag, NASA and mission patches sewn on, and some kind of gold lapel pin.
He'd been hanging back, in a dimmer, quieter section of the big banqueting room, looking somewhat tired. Knowing him as she did, Cindy suspected that he'd got a headache, and fished around in her shoulder bag for some Excedrin. Rather to her surprise, he accepted the pills, with a laconic,
"Thanks."
"You weren't offended, I hope?" She asked, after he'd caged a glass of ice water to swallow them with. "I was just trying to stir things up. Controversy and questions equal coverage, you know."
John shrugged, and Cindy felt instantly sorry for anyone who actually tried loving him, for having such a distant, unyielding god at the center of one's universe would be cold and lonely, indeed.
"You were doing your job," he replied, evenly.
"...Which I'm glad to get back to, finally." Cindy told him, with a tentative smile. "It's been great.., except for missing Scott, and the rest of you guys. Don't take this the wrong way," she added quietly, "but that's the main reason I showed up tonight. It's kind of nice to see family."
He smiled back, the effect like that of a light house beam flashing briefly through darkness and fog. Before the expression had quite faded, he said,
"I know what you mean."
Impulsively, Cindy then told him what had happened to her back in San Francisco.
"...the one guy said it was an 'official matter', which makes me think WorldGov, but they could've been after ransom, or some sick thrills, for all I know."
She'd filled out a police report, of course, but hadn't wanted to give Scott's paranoia any further ammunition. John shook his head.
"Damn. What a time to be leaving the planet. I'm pretty certain Scott's already done it, but I'll call in, anyway, to make sure you're under Gordon-type surveillance."
"That's a relief," she replied. "I kind of thought that the 'dog walker' might have been one of those operatives your father keeps talking about; not just because he vanished neat and tidy, or because I didn't recognize him... San Francisco's a crowded place... but people don't usually walk pets far from home, and none of the dogs were familiar. Not only that, but they kept snapping at each other, like they weren't used to being leashed together."
John cocked a blond eyebrow.
"Good reasoning, and you're probably right. I'll ask around."
"Well," Cindy began, having spotted Pete McCord on his way over (the mission commander had just noticed his pilot apparently being cornered by the room's most alarming reporter, and he'd decided to take action.) "I guess I'll let you go, John. Oh, what the hell...,"
Stepping forward, she kissed his cheek.
"...good luck, and come back safe. I promise coverage out the ass."
He glanced down over one shoulder, then back again, utterly stone-faced.
"Not my best side, actually. I've always preferred my left profile."
Cindy laughed a little.
"I'll keep that in mind. Tell ' Poppa Bear' I didn't mean any harm."
And, with that, Cindy scooted off before 'Hurricane Pete' made landfall. On the way out, she stopped at a Space Center gift shop and bought a little gold bracelet charm in the shape of the Jupiter 4 space craft. It had no gadgetry, but it belonged there anyway. Whatever happened next, as a rather icy, sarcastic friend, John Tracy had earned a spot in her heart alongside his brothers. By launch time, three weeks later, she'd had it soldered on, to hang glistening in the fiery South Florida sun as she shaded her eyes and cheered the spaceship's departure.