Opal Girl, Darkhelmet and Barb, "Hi, there" and "Thanks". I think John's sense of humor can take an odd angle when he's been sedated, or had a few beers, but he means well...
37
Endurance-
As John had discovered on school breaks, three days could pass with startling speed. ...Or, they could drag, depending upon your circumstances. Knowing that time was an entirely subjective experience didn't help much. Not when you were confined to a harness in the midst of the ship's high-tech medlab, trying not to stare at your biomonitor.
'Watched pots never boil', and 'watched vital signs never strengthen'. He'd invented a truism.
Pete was in and out a few times, partly to get his own physical problems attended to and to talk (awkward; John hated small talk, and was just plain bad at it), partly to apologize. Why, the younger man wasn't quite certain. McCord's decision had been entirely logical. In the commander's place, John would have done the same. Yet...
"I just wanted to let you know, Tracy," Pete told him, floating alongside John's harness after a multivitamin/ bone-strengthening shot, "You've got my complete confidence. I flew with your dad...,"
McCord paused a moment, fumbling for the uncharacteristically serious words. He'd clipped his sandy red comb-over, and his newly shorn scalp reflected the ship's overhead lighting as he spoke.
"...and I got to know him about as well as anybody. Good pilot. Very driven. But, you're better. And I say that because... Hell, I dunno... because you're not just using this as a stepping stone to bigger things. You're a lifer, like me and Phil."
Pete's blue eyes were as intense as John had ever seen them, his voice far quieter than usual. John wasn't sure what to feel, much less say.
Jeff Tracy was the mark he'd gauged himself against since the avalanche. He had to be better, because he had to prove to himself that, in his father's place, he would have saved her.
But, Pete was still talking, looking rather guilty, and a little anxious. Patting his shoulder, the Mission Commander said,
"Things got a little crazy, for awhile, and I was... confused. That's over with. Truth is, there's no one I'd rather have beside me on a mission. Period."
And then, his normal impishness returning to the fore, Pete added,
"Of course, the kitchen's a whole 'nother matter. I can honestly say, Tracy, I don't think I've ever met a worse cook."
"Well...," John managed to reply, smiling a little, "there's always ketchup."
Pete laughed, clapped a hand to the back of the pilot's neck, and gave him a fond shake, which set the universe to sloshing and pulsing like something dredged up from the bottom of the sea. Had there been anything in John's stomach, he'd have thrown it up. All over Pete, probably. McCord failed to notice.
"Navy condiment of choice, Buddy," he said. "Covers a multitude of sins and has antibiotic properties, which is a good thing, considering some of the stuff I've seen you dish up. Seriously, though... Take it easy, heal up, and... I'm sorry."
John had recovered enough by now to say,
" ...'S okay, Pete. Soon's I get back in the galley, vengeance is mine."
"Uh-huh...," McCord gusted, launching himself out the hatch, "...let me go adjust that cooking schedule."
Next there was Roger, who spent a lot of time sleeping, and then, all at once, woke up talkative, full of life, and ready to escape the medlab.Besides English and Klingon, they had Samoan in common, and soon developed an off-hand pidgin... (Mars, for instance, was ever afterward Doq qo' , or "Red World") ...that no one else aboard ship had a prayer of understanding.
John wondered, at first, why Roger Thorpe was easier than the others to talk to. Then it hit him. Roger reminded him of Ken Flowers. Not in appearance, so much. Thorpe was good-looking, in a 'high and tight', 'Semper Fi' sort of way, whereas Ken was... a helluva nice guy. But Thorpe shared his friend's imposing size and broad humor, and that was enough to lower some barriers.
"You realize," Roger told him on the second day, after a long argument about women in science fiction movies. "We're admitting we were both total nerds in high school."
John knew better than to shake his head. Too much vertigo.
"Not me," he responded, attempting to keep perfectly still. "Never went to high school. 7th grade straight to Princeton, then a NASA internship... but it was my third time in the 7th grade."
(He didn't actually reply all in English. The response meandered across the languages they both knew, as had the argument, and Roger's follow up.)
"You're kidding. You failed 7th grade?"
"And fifth. Do better with even numbers, I guess."
Then John closed his eyes for a moment, or so he thought. Roger was out of harness and about to leave the medlab, when John regained consciousness. The engineer was resplendent in a red and gold Marine Corps PT shirt, his grin flashing big and white against coffee-colored skin.
"Hey, John! Welcome back to the land of the living, 'AO. I was afraid you were gonna sleep all day."
"Hmmm? No..., I'm good." He looked carefully around, as Thorpe yanked on a pair of shorts. No doctor. "Listen, Roger; I need a favor. Get me out of this harness, please. I have to get up."
Thorpe seemed about to object, studied him for a long minute, then said,
"You sure?"
"Yeah. Got a job to do. I just... can't get out of this thing by myself."
For safety reasons, the arm straps were rigged in such a way as to prevent him from reaching the velcro fasteners, or the IV ports. He'd have been well and truly stuck, waiting forever on Doctor Bennett's cautious, stingy approval, had Roger not shrugged, grinned again, and said,
"DaHjaj ghaH QaQ jaj Daq Hegh!" ('Today is a good day to die')
...then worked him loose. John found something to put on (shorts, and the 'I Spotted the Fed' T-shirt he'd won at the last underground hacker convention), and together, he and Roger returned to the flight deck.
Cho spotted them first, at once pulling out of her seat straps to shoot over and kiss the Marine. Linda Bennett did a sharp double-take on seeing John out of the lab. He looked like hell, and had the ship possessed artificial gravity, Linda was certain he'd have collapsed on the spot.
"John Tracy! What do you think you're doing? You need at least..."
Pete stopped her with a lifted hand, turning away from the comm screen. He had twelve minutes, give or take, before Houston came back with a response.
"I'd say he's piloting the ship, Doctor. Stand down."
Petite and furious, Linda whirled on Pete (too fast; she had to steady herself with a slim hand to the bulkhead).
"Commander McCord, I do not interfere with your decisions... your professional judgement... and I ask that you give me the same..."
Pete gestured sharply around at Roger, Kim, and Linda, herself.
"Doctor, with all due respect, nobody here's exactly ready for the Boston Marathon. It's been a helluva day at sea, Ma'am, and we're doing the best we can."
Turning to John, who floated beside Roger and Cho, he asked,
"Tracy, can you do this?"
John nodded; pale and shaken, but clearly determined.
"Yes, Sir. I can."
"Right. You're on stick, then. And that," the commander turned back again, and stared hard at Linda, "...Is my professional decision."
It would be a long, chilly two days before Dr. Bennett spoke to anyone but Kim, except on mission business.