Varda's Servant, your first insight was correct. As for the other one, you'll know shortly after I do. Thanks for writing, and to Darkhelmet, as well forthe letter andreview. It is always nice to hear from friends.
2
Tracy Island-
Brains was too busy working on Scott, at first, to realize the full scope of the chaos his wormhole had unleashed. Under the probing eye of the scanner, Scott Tracy's internals were a ruptured mess. Shock and massive hemorrhaging had already set in. Death would swiftly have followed, had the engineer not intervened with all the force that medical science could muster.
With Scott stretched out on a treatment table, already sedated, Brains injected a load of surgical nanobots and applied a trauma patch. He focused on the steps, on rational choices, swiftly and precisely weighing the consequences of each action rather than dwelling on how they'd come to this pass. Plenty of time for regrets, later, without adding yet another to the tottering stack.
He watched the glowing scanners, monitoring Scott Tracy's vital signs through each dip and flutter, waiting for the young man's condition to stabilize before beginning work on the little dog. By then, it was almost too late.
He had no proper medications for a canine patient, and hated to waste nanobots that might save a human life… but the dog had ingratiated itself, becoming something akin to a family pet. So, with deep misgivings, Hackenbacker injected a load of surgical robots into the terrier, and set to work. The little animal hardly twitched.
As microscopic machines entered its bloodstream, following prostaglandin and cytokine trails to the injured tissues, Brains scuttled over to his computer station. Several minutes later, after opening a downloaded file, he'd learned the basics of canine physiology well enough to reprogram his nanobots.
Outside, matters were equally confusing and urgent. Thunderbird 2's emergency launch shook cliff-side, house and hangar. More disasters were called in, while the weather continued to worsen, rain in fierce squalls lashing at the med lab's windows, wind gusting powerfully enough to blow down several old trees and a radio antenna. Jeff Tracy was upstairs at the desk, fielding calls and directing the rescue work, with his ribs strapped up and a bottle of extra-strength aspirin at his side.
Brains toiled on, moving from Scott to the dog, and then to Gennine Rivers, when Alan's mother stumbled in with Grandma Tracy. The younger woman's radius and ulna had snapped cleanly in half, as though bent suddenly by a very powerful, extremely precise force. Not a compound fracture, fortunately. The skin was unbroken. The limb hung awkwardly, however, and was quite swollen.
As Hackenbacker maneuvered the arm beneath a third scanner (his lab was growing crowded), she winced, breath hissing softly between clenched teeth.
"I'm, ah… I'm s- sorry, Ms. Rivers," Brains apologized, recalling that the broken arm was attached to a woman. "I d- didn't m- mean to, ah… to hurt you."
Gennine gave him a pained, lop-sided little smile. Her blue eyes were huge in a chalk-white face.
"It's all right, Mr. Hackenbacker," she reassured him. "I know you're doing your best."
Grandma Tracy snorted. Bruised and mussed she might be, but the fierce old woman had lost none of her pepper.
"Fine, my wrinkled rump! Your damn arm's broke! Quit trying to make everybody feel better, Gennie-girl!" And then, without a touch of irony, "That's my job!"
She'd suffered a busted collar bone, herself, hauling young Alan out of harm's way, but at her age, bones tended to snap like dried pasta, so she ignored it. Mostly. (A touch of the old gin-and-white-raisin tonic had never done no harm, yet, that she knew of.)
The ash-blonde younger woman gave Victoria Tracy a fond smile. She really did feel better; mostly because around Grandma Tracy, unless you were dead, you had no business complaining.
"Yes, Ma'am," Gennine replied, relaxing a little, as Brains' painkiller joined forces with the tonic. "I'll remember that."
A sudden cough and groan from Scott distracted the trio's attention. The two women hadn't realized that he'd been injured, much less how badly.
Grandma Tracy stumped over to have a look, the big brown eyes behind their glasses gone suddenly brittle-hard.
A glance at the med scanners' complicated displays told her next to nothing. She dealt with people, animals, crops, the land itself and weather; very rarely with computers.
"He's gonna pull through," the old woman didn't so much ask, as state.
Brains dared a jerky nod, lank brown hair tumbling across his forehead.
"The p- prognosis is, ah… is improving, M- Mrs. Tracy. The n- nanobots repair, ah… repair damage f- from within, at a level n- not, ah… not possible at even th- the most w- well, ah… well equipped trauma center."
Grandma Tracy said nothing, but her expression sealed up like a bank vault. Face unreadable, she stroked the black hair away from Scott's clammy forehead.
Other times, other losses… of a beloved daughter-in-law, and her own husband (his absence still a constant, bewildering ache), her parents, before that… made it difficult to speak.
Until Scott was up, she and Gennine would take turns sitting at his side, Grandma refusing treatment or painkillers the entire time. If all she could do was to keep watch, then, by God, she'd do it unhampered and clear-eyed.
From Hackenbacker's small office came a sudden, sharp buzzing noise. His cell phone, set to vibrate, was locked in the top right drawer of the metal work bench. It had gone off twice, now, though the desperately busy engineer had had no time to answer the thing. Worried, thinking of his far-off son, Brains dashed to the office and answered the phone.
Cross Creek, Florida-
Abruptly blinking in the sunshine, bare toes curling on warm, gritty concrete, she stared across the road at a small food store and garage. She wore a grey, ribbed tank top and black gym shorts, and she smelled of things entirely foreign to Florida. To Earth, even.
Clouds were mounding up in the west, their purple bellies sagging with rain in a blue, blue sky. Around her leaned a hodge-podge of buildings, glass store fronts displaying recycled flea-market junk, battered cans or mongrel puppies for sale. The 2-lane road was pot-holed, the sidewalk weedy, but oddly clean. Not much traffic. Who could afford the gas, around here?
Somewhere nearby, a dog barked as the damp wind brought news of her sudden appearance, and of whence she'd come.
But… how? Where was everyone else?
She needed to think... to call someone; but first, to sit down. There was a park bench close by, of the concrete-and-wood-slat variety. An elderly magnolia tree dropped ragged petals and waxy leaves all over it, and a little drifting shade. Before she could move, though, the door (half glass, half plywood) of 'Dan's Get-n-Go' creaked open. She heard an electric fan, and a portable TV. Then a small man leaned out, all grey hair and astonishment.
"Lindy…?" He called, voice and legs equally rubbery. "That you?"
And, somehow, it was. Toes on concrete, magnolia petal like a curving white shell on one shoulder, staring at an old shop-keeper and an Orange Crush sign, with rain coming on. It was.
Princeton, New Jersey, much earlier-
He'd had to register, and to get his class assignments. No freshman dreck; he'd tested well out of all the '101's, rather to the dismay of his advisor (whom John had every intention of never seeing again).
The dorm room he was assigned, and which his grandfather had helped him move into, was in Holder Hall, second floor, facing east. There was a giant larch tree outside, and a broad, rolling lawn.
In that place and time, the remodeled Holder featured double-entry restrooms shared by two units. Card-access, of course, like the room and the dormitory, itself. Not wishing the bother of a roommate, John paid double the usual rate; or Grant did. The old rancher had more than money enough, and knew that his grandson would repay the debt, with interest, as he'd done for the car.
As they carefully placed each color-coded item of clothing, and stocked the small refrigerator, Grant asked,
"Anythin' else you need, before I head back?"
John looked around. He was in a new place, but between them, the boy and old man had managed to arrange the dorm almost exactly like his room at the ranch house. Except for the refrigerator and oddly-placed bathroom door. Those didn't belong, and would take some getting used to. Otherwise… He'd have to purchase a fish tank, and set up the computer, but the blanket was on the bottom bunk, and his posters on the correct walls.
All Princeton lacked were family and horses, and he wasn't sure, really, how much their absence would mean. They weren't dead, or missing, just temporarily set aside. So, why all the drama?
Pick up the phone, and call. What the hell, in the right mood, he might even answer. John shrugged.
"No, Sir. I'm good, thanks."
Grant nodded.
"Okay, then. Let's go check out this here 'eating club'."
"Tiger Inn," John informed him, helpfully.
"Whatever they call it," his grandfather responded, running a big hand through his own hat-mashed silver hair. "Your grandma'll kill me, if I don't report what they're feedin' you, out here. She'll want toknow how often to time them care packages."
There were no cafeterias or Food Courts at Princeton University. Just a selection of proprietary dining co-ops to which students were assigned by fame or lottery. The 'Ivy Club' was the fanciest. John, who had no desire for attention, had avoided Ivy, though his father's wealth and influence could have gotten him in. Instead, the luck of the draw had landed him at Tiger, a much less monied establishment. Suited John Tracy just fine, as he intended to see even less of the Tiger Inn than he did of his advisor, Doctor Lakewood.
A wind stirred the branches of the larch tree outside his window, causing the golden spatters of light on the worn green rug to shift around. Interested, he watched for a bit, then nodded agreement to the food-scouting notion, adding,
"Yes, Sir. I'll buy lunch."
And so they left the room, making occasional short comments about everything… except what really mattered.