60
Tracy Island- prior to Brains' slight "error":
TinTin sat curled in an armchair, in her own small room, hugging a blue teddy bear. She alternately cried and stared out the window at a restless sea, wondering what to do next.
The man she loved… handsome, heroic and strong, gentle and protective (in a word- Virgil)… did not love her. Not the way she'd dreamt, anyway. Instead, he saw himself as an older brother, one whose romantic situation was already tangled enough.
The girl hiccupped, swallowing a sob, and huddled tighter around the emptily smiling toy. He wasn't much to look at, the bear; hand-me-down product of some long-gone souvenir shop, she thought. But, his presence was a sort of stand-in for Gordon Tracy, the other half of her problem.
It was a deeply painful turnabout that she'd now been hit with exactly the same frustration faced by the Olympic swimmer, her best friend. He loved her, and she knew it; found the fact flattering and comfortable and solid. The wind might shift, or the currents run cold, but Gordon would always be there, ready to catch the girl when she fell.
She ought to love him… certainly he deserved it… but the thought of a physical relationship with him confused her deeply. As if, by lying down with him, she'd place herself in a different category. A thoroughly disposable one. TinTin had been far enough into his mind to know that Gordon was no stranger to women. That he made, probably, a better and more constant friend than he ever would a boyfriend.
Marriage…? That was another matter, entirely. She knew that her father hoped for a match, and that Jeff Tracy would not be adverse to her 'merger' with any one of his sons.
For a moment, she considered the others, as though she were fanning out a handful of trading cards. There was Scott, the eldest. Business-like, responsible and intelligent, he was a leader in every sense of the word, but terribly wrong-footed around women. With his black hair, chiseled features and fighter-pilot calm, Scott could have mowed quite a swathe through the female population of Polynesia, had girls been less of a mystery to him. On the whole, it was little short of a miracle that he'd succeeded so well with Cindy, and TinTin wished them both well.
Next came John, secretive and aloof, his beautiful exterior concealing a core of steel and shadow. John Tracy was like a golden tom-cat; content to stretch out in the sunshine, eyes half-open and tail-tip twitching, until, moved by some inner impulse, he stole away again. In short, he belonged to no-one, and returned when it pleased him. Definitely not.
And Alan…? A whirlwind of hormones and vanity, all too aware that he was good-looking and young and wealthy; that what didn't already belong to him could be ordered up at a moment's notice. He'd tried to kiss her, once, and she'd laughed at him (nerves, mostly). TinTin wasn't sure he even remembered the incident, or his earlier feelings for her. There were, as he would put it, too many other fish in the sea.
Ups and downs with Alan she could accept because, oddly enough, he mattered less. He was loud, self-centered and aggravating, but not vital. TinTin could go two weeks without speaking to the youngest Tracy, and hardly notice, for sooner or later he'd come strutting back, cocksure as ever.
Gordon's long silence was more worrisome. In all the time she'd known him, the red-haired young man had never gone this long without at least sending a text message or email. What had happened? Was he angry? Or in trouble? Ought she to call?
He'd seemed so distant, during the family 'conferences'… but, just now, she very much needed his warmth and steadiness (and, whether she returned it or not, his love). Closing her eyes, TinTin buried her face against the bear, wetting its blue fur. A sudden thought came to her, then; that she could go to Madrid, perhaps wheedle Alan into coming along, as well.
All at once energized, TinTin kissed the bear's plush little nose, and uncoiled herself from the soft chair.
"Very well, Mon Coeur, as something has most certainly gone amiss in Espagne, I shall come to help you, bringing, also, the so terrible Alan."
She'd have summoned young Fermat, as well, had she been able to think of a way to free him from his school without arousing attention. As Alan had said more than once, when the four of them banded together, they were nearly unstoppable. More than Scott, John and Virgil could deal with, at any rate. Much more.
Walking across the rug to her narrow little bed, TinTin placed the teddy bear back on his accustomed perch, her pillow. If plans counted for anything at all, she was as good as on her way.
Mars; (low hills, rocky terrain, flying sand, and trouble)-
The storm had filled half the sky, a boiling, red-brown wall pierced by flashes of brilliant lightning. The wind's shrill whistle had risen, meanwhile, to something ragged and pained, like a distant, despairing shriek. The light had changed, too, vanishing away as morning was eaten alive around them. From coffee stain, to marmalade to dense, crepuscular smog, the day turned suddenly dim and murderous.
Roger Thorpe, eyes on their stony route, mind very much elsewhere, flipped on the tractor's headlamps. Even with extra lighting, he could barely make out the two power suits that strode alongside. They were just a few hundred meters from the supply cylinder, but the dust cloud seemed likely to reach it, first. Worried, the Marine looked over at Pete McCord, seated beside him in the tractor's dark, vibrating cab.
"Skipper," he said, "the girls haven't got a lot of cover. If they hang back here with us, they'll be caught in this shit. The suit joints'll freeze up. Upshot is, they've gotta get to one of the cylinders, before the storm hits." They wouldn't like it much, though.
Nodding briskly, Pete keyed on his helmet mike.
"Doctors, make for the depot, double-time. No questions; just shut up and move."
The power suits were faster than the tractor on Martian terrain, but far more vulnerable, their operators terribly exposed. That should have been perfectly obvious, but Linda balked, once again butting heads with the mission commander.
"Pete, if you think for a minute that we're going to just…"
"No," he cut her off, "I don't think. I order. Now, get your ass to shelter, and save my goddam equipment. We'll follow you."
Just like the milk incident, only worse. Linda Bennett swallowed hard. Whatever she thought of Pete McCord's 'chivalry', there was no arguing with his logic, or the oncoming storm, pummeling winds, buffeting sand and ball lightning. Already, she and Kim Cho were finding it hard to remain on course and upright. If they left now, they could reach the cylinder, taking shelter within while their stubborn, mulish crewmates caught up… when and if they could.
She knew, objectively, that going ahead was the only thing to do; that if the tractor were to be buried in sand, it would take both fully operational power suits to free the thing. But, she still felt like a coward and deserter.
As windborne particles pinged and scoured at her suit's armored flanks, Linda said,
"Moving, Commander. We'll keep the porch lights on and the doors open."
"The hell you will!" Already, the storm was interfering with communications, breaking up Pete's transmission. "Shut…rs. We… ock."
The last thing she heard was what Pete had always referred to, jokingly, as the 'secret knock'. (Shave and a haircut… two bits)
"Right," Linda responded heavily, hoping they'd received her. Kim had made a private transmission of her own. To Roger, no doubt.
As the ugly, dark cloud reared itself above them, she and Kim Cho raced for the cylinder, barely visible now in occasional flashes of violet lightning. All the world was turning to blackness and alien, howling cold.
She turned her suit's lights on, and throttled forward, the thunder and slam of metal on rock transformed by chips and wiring to the sensations of a gut-stretching run. She got a stitch in her side, and felt winded, even; but the repaired knee held up.
In the open, lurching cockpit, Linda was slammed repeatedly against her seat straps and control panel. Visibility sank like a rock from poor to abysmal, but she still had the cylinder's intermittent beacon to home in on, and her heads-up display provided a terrain map, of sorts. She was able to avoid the worst boulders and pitfalls, at least, reaching the massive cylinder just as a tornadic roar and utter blackness descended.
Guided by the helmet's glowing map, Linda found and pressed the outer airlock key. A big, round door irised open, then stuck half-way, jammed by dust and bitter cold. She and Kim Cho had to contort themselves to squeeze through the 30-foot opening, deeply scraping one of the petals in the process.
They found themselves in a cramped (huge) antechamber of polished metal, lit only by their suits' blinking amber running lights. The inner airlock was shut fast, the storage area evidently retaining its integrity. Linda checked her sensors, scanning as much of her surroundings as conditions allowed. Didn't learn much, though.
The tractor had dropped out of her rear view field; just a little behind them, probably, though communications had become all but impossible, even between Linda and Cho. The two women pushed further within, static arcing between the airlock floor and their mechanized feet with every step.
Pivoting on limbs that ground and squeaked in protest, Linda started to hit the 'airlock close' key, but Dr. Kim moved to block her. Using the sign language alphabet that Pete had taught them, and the loading machine's giant hands, Cho spelled out,
'Wait… please… coming.'
Though she couldn't see her friend's face very clearly, Linda had the sudden feeling that Cho was crying. Dust billowed in, crackling with static. Outside, the wind clawed and howled, while Pete and Roger and John struggled to reach them.
Elsewhere, another time-
Somewhat shakily, he crossed the concrete floor, to a trough-like sink, and the scarred sliver of metal that had been bolted to the wall above it for a mirror. What he saw there, scratched and flecked with corrosion though the reflection appeared, was almost gut-punch traumatic.
He put a thin hand up, pushed the hair away from his eyes, and stared. Everything, even his clothing, was right. Or... almost
"God damn," he whispered, words nearly drowned by the sounds of someone retching noisily in a nearby stall. "…what the hell did she do?"
Cold, suddenly, and searching for answers, he tugged up the two tee shirts, exposing a bit of one side. Had to pull away the waist band of his jeans for a close enough look, but… nothing. Smooth skin. The scar was gone, or had somehow never existed.
Shoving his over-large clothing back into place, he tried to think around sudden shards of dagger-like worry. Outwardly, though, he remained calm. This wasn't a safe place to show fear and uncertainty.
But the others; where the hell were they, and in what condition? He couldn't have survived alone. They had to have made it, somehow.
The question was, how could he find them, without making things worse?