(Hopefully) better late than never...
53
Madrid, Spain-
But, on the whole, life went on. Whether training to the point of collapse on weights, the running track or pool, fighting to stay awake through dinner at the communal dining hall, or slipping curfew, Gordon and the others stayed busy.
He resisted the urge to email TinTin, knowing that she needed space and think-time in order to tackle Virgil... and not really knowing what to wish for; her happiness, or his own. He contacted Alan, though, discovering through his brother that Jeff Tracy was still on the Island, Scott was an over-bearing jerk, Virgil had quit smoking again ('cold turkey'), John hadn't updated his character on Alan's role-playing site in weeks... etc., etc.
And TinTin?
"Off doing chick-stuff, somewhere. Who cares, Bro? Back to business; what kind of character class do you want? Fermat's already a magic-user, but..."
And, so on.
He went to Mass, too, at the Almudena, feeling that his soul could stand a bit of cleansing, and about 3000 candles. Quite brought back memories of his stint as the world's worst altar boy, but settled something deep inside him. (And, after all, he'd promised his mum.)
The day came, as it had every year, when the European Men's Swim Team were scheduled for their 'shots'. A dodgy business, conducted quickly, and very much 'off the record'.
There was a clinic, in a tall, Moorish-style building deep within the city's old quarter, on a street narrow and cobbled with time-slicked stones. Crusading knights had ridden that twisting lane, Arab potentates, swaggering buccaneers and Spanish kings. Too tight a squeeze for most automobiles, the street still saw a fair amount of pedestrian traffic.
Late that morning, their bus dropped the team off at a busy roundabout, and the young men, their head coach and two assistants walked the rest of the way. Bit of a slog, but necessary, as 'El Clinico Santa Cruz' specialized in no-questions-asked sports medicine.
Strolling along beside Royce and Erik, Gordon played 'spot the operative'. Perhaps the uniformed, smiling policeman on the corner had been placed there by his family, or the dark-haired young flower girl with the push-cart and the speaking eyes. One of his assistant coaches, maybe...? Or that muscular fellow repairing a bicycle? It might have been any of them.
At any rate, Gordon knew that his father's agents were out there, whether he pegged them correctly, or not. And, yes, he felt safer because of it. Until he reached the clinic, anyway.
It was a lovely, rain-scrubbed day, alive with the scent of flowers and drying stone, the sun just now putting his head out to settle this tiresome puddle business. Gordon had been to that clinic, walked up the broad stairs and through the big wooden doors literally dozens of times before. But, on this occasion, stepping into cool, musty shade as a line of fellow athletes filed slowly into the examination room, Gordon suddenly panicked.
He could see, through the open hall door, other young men being weighed, scanned and 'inoculated'. Gene doping. He'd had the very same procedure done to him from the age of ten, receiving without complaint a yearly hypodermic load of altered viruses meant to deliver a targeted 'message'. Arriving at their destination, the viral delivery system would insert genes coding for greater muscle mass and endurance, converting those with a certain predisposition into virtual 'supermen'.
Gordon froze in the hallway, beneath a gilt-framed portrait of Queen Isabella Maria. His heart was pounding, and his breath rattled in his chest like he'd contracted pneumonia.
Royce nearly collided with him, caught out by Gordon's sudden stop. Erik stumbled, muttering something truly blistering in Swedish and French, both (he'd turned his ankle recently, and was still a little sore).
"Vad en...?" The husky blond demanded, windmilling to regain his balance on the colorfully tiled floor. Royce saved Erik another painful spill by seizing his near arm.
"Bloody 'ell, Gordon! Give a bloke some warnin', before you 'it th' damn brakes, won't you?"
Then, noting his friend's sudden pallor,
"G' wan, Petersen. I got this."
Erik adjusted the wrapping on his left ankle, resuming his usual good humor. With his blond crewcut and bony face, he looked like a Swedish special forces officer, but was actually rather pleasant, once you got to know him.
"Fine and bon, Royce, but den coach ar just in the point of arrival, so... how ar they saying this in Spanish...? Apurate!"
Royce waved his teammate on, glancing exasperatedly at Gordon. His red-haired young friend stood as securely rooted to the spot as though bolted there.
"Oy, Tracy; enough muckin' about, lad. Erik's right. If 'imself finds you balkin' like this, 'e'll..."
But Gordon shook his head, saying,
"I can't go in there."
Other athletes slumped about the brightly-lit examination room with glum resignation, being measured, prodded and injected, same as always. Same anatomy and VD posters, same glass-fronted cabinets, same technicians. Perfectly safe.
Somehow, though, Gordon knew that if he went inside, the door would slam shut and the windows would disappear, and he'd be trapped. There would be questions he fought hard not to answer, even when...
Not taking his gaze from the room, with its business-like doctors and rattling instruments, Gordon backed toward the wide outer doors. Halfway down the stairs, in the rising, steamy heat, he could breathe again. Royce was there, too, looking decidedly cross.
"...growin' a wretched conscience now, of all times, are you? Everyone does it. Th' Yanks, th' Asians, an', as far as th' ruddy Ozzies... they started this mess in th' first place, didn't they? It's not bloody cheatin', if everybody does it, mate. Think of it as a boost. Vitamins-plus, so t' speak."
Gordon stared at his taller friend as though Royce had just stepped off an alien space ship, demanding quality time with the King. No communication possible. He couldn't explain the bubble of acid panic that had made him want to heaver, right there in the damn hall.
Their coach was coming up the stairs now, scowling darkly. Running a broad hand across his bristly, salt-and-pepper hair, McMahon snapped,
"An' just what th' 'ell are you two at? There's not time f'r a blasted afternoon tea, gents!"
Tapping a red ink pen against his omnipresent clipboard (he'd never yet made the technological leap to the newer, electronic data boards), the coach added,
"Schedule! P'raps y've 'eard of it? That daft little time jobber that precedes trainin' an' competition? Right. And, whilst you pair are takin' th' air and 'avin y'rselves a nice little chat, I'm tryin' t' run a team, an' stay outta th' bloody mental 'ospital!"
Trapped, again; with no way to explain, or to ask for help. He had to go inside... but couldn't bring himself to do so. Torn, under brutal pressure, Gordon went suddenly blank and empty, as he had once before, on the Island.
Fortunately, his condition did not go completely unnoticed. Transmitted through the ID chip to one who'd been set to watch him, Gordon's increased heart rate and stress signals attracted almost instant attention.
Security cameras turned smoothly about, shifting their focus from sun-lit, tree-lined street to the graceful staircase, and the analog lifeforms that stood there. Error. Although the two individuals nearest Gordon Tracy were quickly identified and classed as non-inimical, and no other obvious hazards were present, 4.0 was clearly experiencing distress; nature and source unknown.
Five consulted pre-existing commands, then re-queried the chip. And again, all physical indicators pointed to imminent system failure.
'Protect Gordon. Guard from harm, and, if necessary, redirect him,' John Tracy had input. There seemed no dangers against which to protect or guard 4.0, so she focused instead on redirection, interpreting John Tracy's command in the broadest sense possible.
The ID chip could be regarded as an open port, one without a firewall or internal defense system. As her analog companion would put it,
'Practically an engraved invitation.'
Inserting herself, Five 'hacked' another human system, this one perilously close to crashing. As the higher-functioning portions of Gordon Tracy's buggy, fragmented software shut themselves down, a certain quantum computer attempted to take over, and do a bit of patching.