7
Thunderbird 4:
He tried, because one must. One plunged into the water, instead of standing at the block, and swam to win, every time, or why bother?
Bringing a hand to the side of her face, he touched his mouth, very gently, to hers. The kiss felt warm and soft and electric, and her thoughts, brushing against his, were like the bubbles in victory champagne, or sunlight off water. But, it brought understanding, as well, of two very important things. And what he did next... and what he didn't do... made all the difference in the world.
Tracy Island:
Later, back at the noisy underground hangar complex, Scott struck like a cyclone; fast and hard. Waving the others on up to the office, he jerked a thumb at Gordon, indicating that his younger brother was to stay back. When Virgil, Alan and Brains had cleared the area, Scott rounded on the teenager, snapping,
"You've got about ten seconds, mister, to tell me what the hell you think you were doing, sneaking TinTin along on a dangerous mission!"
Gordon didn't say the first thing that came to his head, or even the second (wisely), but he didn't take the matter very seriously, either.
"Relax, Grandad. She came along f'r th' practice. No harm, no foul. She had a good time, an' helped out a bit. Where's the issue?"
In the hangar's grim, fluorescent lighting, Scott's blue eyes narrowed, actually seeming to darken. Jaw clenched, heavy brows drawing together, he looked ready to explode. Around them, the thump and hum of maintenance machinery started up, as the various craft were coddled and attended to.
"Issue? I'll tell you what the issue is! What would've happened if there had been an emergency, and you'd had to rescue John, and the rest of the crew? Or if the gunmen had gotten past you, and into 4? What would have happened to TinTin?"
"Nothin'," Gordon replied stubbornly, "Because she'd have taken care of herself, and helped out with th' situation. She's not a damn infant, Scott. F'r heaven's sake, she's older than Alan, an' he's allowed t'..."
But the team leader cut him off, rigid with shock, and disapproval.
"TinTin's readiness is not for you, or her, or even me to decide, Gordon! It's between Kyrano, and dad. And, you will by God do things by the book, with proper authorization, or I'll see to it that you sit out the next five missions!"
He might have been bluffing. With Alan returning to school in Los Angeles the next week, and John off to Mars, the team was going to be awfully short-handed. Still...
"I'm sorry, Scott. Won't happen again, my word on it." Not for anything would Gordon have gotten the girl into trouble by letting on that she'd pestered him into all this. "I wasn't thinkin'."
Scott appeared to relax a bit, but he still had something on his mind. Looking directly into the teenager's hazel eyes, he said,
"Please tell me... that nothing happened. That your 'good time' didn't include anything potentially dangerous."
Gordon blinked. He had to remind himself that Scott was his brother, and had a right to ask such questions. Otherwise, he'd have punched him. Lowering his gaze, the young aquanaut said,
"No. Nothin' like that." And he added, heavily, "I'm not th' one she fancies."
Scott's expression changed. Perhaps more than Gordon realized, he understood. All at once, he clapped a hand to his younger brother's shoulder, saying,
"Well... there'll be others. The thing to remember is, don't get yourself into a position where you're thinking with the wrong body parts."
Gordon, torn between humiliation and laughter, couldn't quite believe how much Scott sounded like his coach. But his brother continued, quite seriously,
"Girls are going to start offering themselves to you, Gordon, if they haven't already. Just remember that each of those bodies is attached to a heart and mind, and be man enough to stand by what you've done."
It was rather awkward, getting a 'life, sex and everything' lecture from Scott, but better than being shouted at, so Gordon merely nodded.
"Right, then," his oldest brother concluded, evidently satisfied with the interview. "Topic closed. But, tell TinTin for me that it never happens again. Period."
The faintest memory occurred to him, of a heavily-sedated Scott ordering him to bring a girl aboard Thunderbird 2, but it trailed off, lost in the tangled, 'burnt spot' that he now reflexively avoided prodding. So, Gordon nodded again, and kept his mouth shut.
"Good man." With another hearty clap to the shoulder, Scott turned for the stairs. "Get her out, then, and let's get moving, before Virgil sends a search party."
Beneath Peary Crater:
There was a different walk, on the moon. Suited up, on the surface, you sort of hopped; but below ground, within the tight confines of the station, you learned to shuffle, unless cracking your head on the ceiling was a source of continual delight. One-sixth gravity had a way of making itself felt.
Other Moon Station safety tips ( "always keep your survival suit handy", "maintain clear access to the airlocks" and "know your emergency escape rendezvous spot") were almost as quickly internalized. 'Dead' was a state with far too many swift, messy inception points, and the moon offered few second chances. Admonishing placards were everywhere; like the dust, the life support system's reedy hiss, and the subtle rumble of robot mining equipment. You got used to it, and you stayed alert.
John and the rest of the crew received a hearty welcome. The moon station folk didn't get out much, were pretty nearly germ-free themselves, and as starved for contact as stranded islanders. Needless to say, they made rather a party of anything new.
Over the scheduled stopover, John and Roger would handle Endurance's reconfiguration, while Cho and Linda donned mechanical power suits to load supplies, and Pete coordinated. First, though, there wastime to change, and shower. Low pressure and lukewarm, but you didn't have to vacuum the water off of yourself, either.
John quite enjoyed his, despite 5's sudden appearance (it was one of the few spots where she could address him in private). Sensitive to his feelings, she manifested herself in the sealed shower alcove as a simple orb of lavender energy, but her tone was sharp, and vexed.
"John Tracy, there is too little processing power within the Endurance Vessel's slave system to sustain proper cognitive function." Then, reaching for a more organic term, she added, "The on-board system is 'cramped'."
She had a point. There were video games back on Earth with more processing power. He was immediately distracted, though, by something else. Pausing in mid-soap (mild and organic; the station air and water filters couldn't handle complex detergent molecules), he said,
"You changed your voice." For, the delicate British accent had vanished. She hardly sounded like Penelope, now, at all.
"Probable consequence of reduced hard drive and system power," she replied testily, coming back to the point, as she hung sparking and pulsing before him in the misty, droplet-filled air.
"Maybe so," he responded with a sigh, finishing up the business at hand. Then, "What about parallel processing?"
"Explain."
The moon station's computer provided more room for thought, but still left her rather constricted. Shrugging, John cut off the spattering water and reached for a towel.
"Why not link with your equivalents across the nearest few dimensions? Don't know if it's even possible, but..."
"Working."
His computer fell silent, then winked out like a guttering candle flame. Not unusual. She did that, sometimes, when faced with a particularly thorny and memory-eating problem. Deciding to give her a little compiling space, John got out of the shower, re-dressed himself in a basic lunar survival suit, hung the requisite helmet from his equipment belt, and left the bathroom.
There was a triple-layered, steel-glass window set in the rock wall outside. Through it, beyond the harshly lit brown desert, he could see a curving, blue and white arc. The slender young man paused a moment, just looking. From a distance, this way, with all the fluctuations and chaos smoothed out, the Earth appeared strangely serene. Only on-planet did you smell the burning, hear the shouts, the gunfire, the despair and the hatred. And he wondered... was it possible to avoid exporting all that to Mars?
"You miss her?" Someone asked. Pete, pinkly fresh from his own recent scrubbing. There were so many answers to that question that John hardly knew where to begin. He settled at last for,
"More than I expected to."
"Don't let it get to you, Tracy," the older man smiled. "Three days from now, you'll be too busy to think, and then back on the other side before you know what happened. Like running across the freeway, dodging traffic."
Despite himself, John had to laugh.
"Um... I've never really tried that," he admitted, running a hand through his blond hair.
"Timid, huh?" McCord joked, smiling. "Don't worry..., we'll fix that."
Then Roger sauntered up, arranging the top of his 'high and tight' with a plastic comb. The girls, who always fussed more and took longer about bathing themselves, would be awhile, yet.
"Anybody else hungry?" The Marine inquired, grinning broadly. "I could eat anything not freeze dried, microwaved, or out of a plastic bag."
John snorted, but Pete returned the combat engineer's grin with a slight, rueful head shake.
" 'Fraid you're outta luck, then, Thorpe. It's 'all of the above' stew, tonight, I'm told. But...!" The red-haired mission commander held up a forefinger, "If I remember correctly, Phil keeps a few cold beers stashed away for special occasions. Only one apiece, though," he hastened to add. "Alcohol in low gravity has some weird effects."
Kim Cho and Linda appeared at last, from the opposite end of the corridor. Automatically and unconsciously, postures straightened, shoulders went back, and voices deepened. Just like alcohol, women had weird effects (even with damp, pony-tailed hair, no makeup and baggy survival suits).
Together, talking shop and mission, the commander, engineer, doctor, biologist and pilot headed off along the low, dusty tunnel, thinking all that lay ahead was a welcoming banquet.