Dislcaimer: Thunderbirds is the property of Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, as well as Carlton and Universal. No profit is intended to be made from this story; it is for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended, and none should be inferred. All original characters are the property of the author. This story should not be used or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.
AN1: To honor this web-site's new review-response policy, I will be posting responses and extended author notes on my author profile page instead. I will update it every time I post a chapter, which saves myself the time of sending out review responses over this web-site and allows everyone to see what I have said to others. Please have a look. :D
AN2: Thus begins the final saga of "The Winds of Advent", a five part story arc entitled "Blood Is Thicker Than Water" which will take you through triumph, death, despair, and renewal. Let the race begin.
Blood is Thicker Than Water: Part I
Racing
May 2019
As was expected from a young man that was so energetic during the day, Gordon Tracy was often prone to intense and vivid dreams while sleeping. Most of them involved some sort of water, generally a pool, and ended with him winning some sort of award. They all, however, without question, finished with him waking up in his bed with the realisation that the dream had been just that – a dream.
Looking out across the vast waters of the Florida coast, Gordon couldn't help but note that his dreams had generally been more colorful. The real waters before him were grey and stormy, and the sky was not the normal sapphire blue of his mind, but a dark and penetrating black that suggested thunderstorms and torrential rains.
Whatever it looked like, however, it could not ruin the growing excitement in the pit of his stomach. He had finally made it. Amidst a group of brothers who nearly all gone into technical careers, against perhaps the better judgement of his father, in spite of the jeers and jokes of his former schoolmates – he was set to swim at the National competition in Tampa Beach.
Spreading his arms in the air, Gordon took a deep breath, trying to take in the moment and engrave it into his mind forever. No matter how wonderful the dreams had been, what he was experiencing was the real thing, and he had no intention of forgetting it. Every wisp of salty air that entered his lungs, every draft of wind across his forehead . . .
It was his moment, his week, and he wanted to embrace. It was what he had waited his entire life for, the time when he could finally prove himself good at something. The moment when he could stand on a podium, smile at the world, and look at his brothers and yell, "Look at me! Look at what I've done!" Maybe it wasn't a college degree. Maybe it wasn't a Medal of Bravery from the air force. Maybe it wasn't a scholarship offer to the best engineering school in the country.
But it was something.
In twenty-six hours, he was going to jump in a pool with seven other young men that would be just as determined as he to win. They would wait at the start line, feet pressed against the starting platforms, eyes directed downward towards the crystal waters of the race pool. Then the gun would fire, the bodies would arch, the water would fly, and the race would begin.
More terrified, yet more overjoyed than he had ever been in his life, Gordon closed his eyes and replayed one more time in his mind his dream, the dream where he had won the gold and had raised the medal over his head in triumph. He was going to realize that dream the next day.
He knew it.
"For the love of everything sacred, Scott, hold the camera still. You're making me seasick."
Grinning at the sound of John's voice, Scott carefully balanced his digital video camera on the railing in front of him. From where he sat in the stands, he had a wonderful view of the pool, unobstructed by the heads of other people or by television cameras that were trying to get a piece of the action. Gordon wasn't out on the deck yet, but when he finally came out it would be easy enough to find him.
Reaching up to adjust the microphone on his hidden headset ever so slightly, Scott whispered back, "Sorry John, it's pretty windy out here."
From a small speaker in Scott's ear, John's voice replied, "My sensors are registering nothing but a light breeze. The only wind in Tampa Beach right now is coming from your mouth."
Sitting next to Scott, Jeff Tracy smiled slightly and gave his son a secretive look from the corner of his eye. "Scott, your radio is up pretty loud. You might want to turn it down."
"Well, the broadcaster is talking pretty loud."
John's voice continued speaking from the headset. "I demand a different camera person."
Turning to his father, Scott muttered, "The broadcaster says he wants a different camera person."
"Here," Jeff gestured toward himself, "turn it towards me."
Obliging, Scott redirected the camera towards his father and turned up the volume reading ever so slightly.
"To whomever may be watching this, you'd better sit and be quiet, because you'd rather have Scott doing the camera work than me." The older man gave the camera a grin full of teeth, then turned back to watch the action around the pool.
"I could find a satellite up-link that's better," John finally decided, though Scott thought his voice lacked a certain joy to it that it had had a few minutes earlier. "Give me five minutes. I'll find one. Wait, I have the national station that's carrying it." There was a pause. "Cripes, they have lousy color. What is this supposed to be, an amateur broadcast? That's it, I'm turning back to your frequency. And it'd better be stationary now."
A smile curved onto Scott's lips, and he intentionally jiggled the camera around just enough to fuzz the picture. There was something perversely enjoyable about annoying John, though he always felt guilty about it after the fact. It was just that some people's buttons were easier to push than others, and John had a whole keyboard of them ready to be depressed. "Whoops, looks like the wind is picking up again."
"You're despicable!"
"Just remember, John – you could have Dad doing the camera work." Glancing up at the sky and seeing nothing but blue, Scott smiled and turned once again to his father. "You know, he has a great day for this. The weather couldn't be better."
Nodding, Jeff looked out over the railing as, faintly visible against the myriad of other swimmers, Gordon sat down on the pool deck and began to stretch. "I know what you mean. I hope nothing goes wrong. After yesterday's weather, I was beginning to think they'd have to postpone the race."
"They won't. Unless the wind picks up again, it'll be fine. It's not supposed to get windy again until later, anyway." Scott, perhaps more than any other member of the family, truly had faith in his brother. Gordon had a tendency to goof off, but when it involved something that he cared about personally he was without doubt the most dedicated member of the family. When he wanted something, truly and deeply with all his heart, he generally managed to get it.
"How can he be so calm?" John muttered via radio.
The comment was an interesting one. Normally, Scott knew, he and John would act the same as Gordon was out on the deck. It was not in their personalities to be loose and immature at important occasions, yet the tension of the moment had found wonderful relief in he and John's casual bantering back and forth.
Scott grinned. "He's focused, John. It's like having a runner's high. Adrenaline kicks in, emotions turn off, body goes into overdrive."
"Ah. I see. The last time I did something like that I threw up on some poor man's loafers at NASA."
"Scott, how long until the race?"
"Hold on, John," Scott said, "Dad wants to know something." Fishing around for the program with his free hand, Scott finally found it buried in the camera bag under his feet. He flipped it open and scanned up and down the paper until the time he was looking for jumped out at him. "Dad, race starts in fifteen. Sorry, John, what were you saying?"
"Oh, nothing important. Just reminiscing about the good ole' days."
The entire conversation was beginning to seem like a hodgepodge of words to Scott. The atmosphere in the arena was contagious, and he was starting to wonder if he was inheriting the nervousness that his brother seemed to be able to shrug off so easily. Gordon looked so calm, even to Scott's eye, as though he was lost somewhere in a dream version of reality.
Fifteen minutes, and then the race would start. To Scott Tracy, safely up in the stands with no pressure on him but to keep his camera study, those fifteen minutes seemed like an eternity.
"Stroke. Breathe. Catch the water, turn it under. Foot kick, push off the wall, do it again."
"Tracy, you ready?"
Of course he was ready. Gordon Tracy was ready for anything – and if he knew his friend Jason Hurk well enough, then he knew the other boy was also prepared. Though brown-haired Hurk didn't have a particularly agile swimmer's build, it was his determination that had carried him to the finals. It was that strength - that nerve - which Gordon wanted to be able to harness and use once again.
"Keep the hand cupped, streamlined. Don't turn a flat angle to the water."
"Sure, Hurk, what d'ya think? I've been ready for this moment my entire life."
"Cycle of breaths, one stroke then breathe once. Too often and you'll take on water, too little and you'll sink. Butterfly is hard, boys. Don't try and pull an endurance swim on it."
"Guess it was a stupid question. Hey, good luck, though! You're gonna bring home the gold for us, right?"
"Two laps to go, keep the arms moving, Tracy! Don't slow down."
"Ah, heck, Hurk. You've got as good a shot as me."
"Lead the pack!"
"Like hell, everyone knows you're gonna win it for us. But good luck."
He could already feel the adrenaline, as though his body was immersed in the water and he was dreaming that he was on dry land.
"Sure, good luck. Maybe try and take home the silver, 'kay?"
The other swimmers looked so professional. Was he even any match for them?
"These guys look serious, Tracy. 'Specially that one from Iowa. Jesus, he's giving you a look to kill. Think you can take him?"
It'd be a fight, but he'd give it his best shot. He was going to be one with the water, was going to leave the other bodies in his wake.
"He couldn't beat me in a paddle pool."
Two minutes. Two minutes, and he was terrified inside and ready to pass out.
"Right on, Tracy. That's the attitude. That's what coach would say. Too bad he's not here to see it."
But his family was. There they were, in the stands, waving to him.
"He's watching at home. At least he'll see us somehow."
"Hey, is that your Dad?"
"Sure is." Gordon grinned, and waved in the direction of the stands.
"Good luck for you. My dad couldn't come. He's at home watching it on our set."
"Too bad. Maybe he'll come to the next one."
"Yeah. Hey Gord, big man's coming. Time to get set."
There came the head official, rounding up the swimmers.
"Time to go. Good luck, man."
"You too."
Platform three. His platform, the place where he would begin the best race that he had ever swum in his life. In the distance, wavering in the Florida heat, he could just make out the other side of the pool and the red line painted on the wall. The red line – the place where he would finish the best race of his life.
Taking a deep breath, Gordon positioned himself on the platform and prepared himself for the moment that he'd been dreaming of for nearly four years, since the time that his coach had first told him he might have a shot at making the national team. Maybe in the dream it had been an Olympic gold medal, but Gordon truly didn't care.
Gold was gold, and he was bringing it home.
He could hear them cheering, even amidst the voices of a thousand other people. Scott's voice was loud, the trained words of a man who had been taught to yell in the armed forces. His father's voice, that of company executive used to delivering speeches, also carried out over the people, over the water, and buried itself somewhere at the back of Gordon's mind.
"Gordon!"
The platform felt warm beneath his feet. The freshly painted wood, not the normal plastic used by most pools, was almost alive, pulsing in his palms as he leaned forward and balanced on the edges of his hands.
The man raised the starting gun into the air.
"Gordon, you can do it!"
John was watching too, somewhere up in space. Virgil was too, back home at the island, staying back just in case a rescue call came in. Alan would probably have found a television at school - and was skipping class just to watch.
"Ready!"
Was he ready?
The gun went off with the sound of a sonic boom.
With all the water flying everywhere, John found it hard to tell where his brother was and where the rest of the swimmers were around him. The pool was only eight lanes, with Gordon being in the third nearest to the stands that Scott and his father sat at, but it was still almost impossible to distinguish specific forms. Anxiety gnawed at him, and John fervently wished that he were actually at the pool, standing beside his brother and father and cheering at the top of his lungs for Gordon to win.
There had to be a better angle.
An idea – a very, very illegal idea – came to mind, and John quickly flipped on the nearest computer screen. It wouldn't be that hard to borrow the satellite, given that it wasn't government owned but was instead used by a home retail company to chart and sell property . . . and the chances his position being found from the link would be very little.
"There we are," he sighed in relief, as a crisp and clear overhead image of the pool flashed onto the main screen. The resolution wasn't spectacular, but from the overhead angle he could clearly make out the ant sized forms of eight young men trying their hardest to take home the gold. "I am going to catch hell for this later."
"Gordon!" Half sitting, half-standing on the couch, Virgil pumped his fists in the air as his brother made the switch over at the end of the pool. There were still three laps to go, but Gordon was leading the swimmer from Iowa by a fraction of a second. Their strokes were almost synchronised, both young men coming up for air at the same time, both kicking and pulling back the water with their arms at the same time.
He didn't care that he was at home watching from the living room, and he also didn't care that he was likely drawing odd looks from the Belagants and Brains who were watching – quite passively, he noted – along with him.
"Kick his ass!"
Brains and Kyrano traded amused expressions, and continued to watch the screen in silence. From the far side of the room, Tin-Tin stared intently at the screen, eyes focused on the blurry image of Gordon Tracy.
The television blared at full volume. "Folks, I don't know if you can see this, but Gordon Tracy from the Oregon State Team is leading the pack, only two hundredths of a second off of Simon Towers from Iowa State!"
Pumping his fists again, Virgil jumped fully to his feet as Gordon approached the end of the second lap of four. "You can do it, Gord! I know you can!"
"He's gonna win!" Alan screamed, banging his fist on the table in the school cafeteria. On the screen, located high on the far wall, his brother was beginning the third lap of the race. Alan knew little about swimming save that the stroke they were doing was the butterfly, but it was obvious to him – based on the television reporter's comments – that Gordon was likely going to win.
"T-t-t-think so?"
Alan turned to Fermat and nodded anxiously. "He's gonna win!"
As long as no teacher came in to see what the yelling was about, they'd even be able to see the end of the race. Alan really didn't care if he was caught – he was getting sick of the school already, and he didn't want to miss the race for anything.
"Gordon! Go!"
The moment was absolutely unreal. The crowd of the arena literally stood up as one, lifting their arms in the air, cheering for every single one of the swimmers down in the pool.
Scott knew for whom he was cheering. He also knew that he was supposed to be holding the camera steady, but he somehow thought that John would be able to find a better video to watch. There was no holding in the shear excitement of the moment. It was incomparable, more emotional and intense than anything in the world.
"Gordon!"
There was their father, the façade of the executive removed for a few minutes, screaming at the top of his lungs for his boy to win.
There was Gordon, on the last lap of the race, butterfly still going strong, focused in on the point at the end of the pool that signified victory.
He was going to win. He had to win.
Scott raised his fists in the air and joined in the din at the top of his lungs. "Come on Gord, you can do it!"
For a period of about two minutes, Gordon Tracy was only aware of three things – the water around him, the air above the water, and his body that carried him between the two mediums. But then, suddenly, his mind took in and accepted the presence of a fourth identity:
The red stripe on the far wall of the pool.
Four laps. Four laps, then he was supposed to pour his entire strength into the race, give his all, touch the wall before anyone else. That was the principle behind winning.
The noise of the race, the water splashing, the cheering, the gasping of air, faded into the background, and the sound of his beating heart resounded in his ears. Badump, his pulse beat every time he took another stroke, every time a long second passed and he became that much closer to the finish line.
Badump. He was running out of air, his muscles were screaming for more oxygen.
Badump. A dark shape to his right lunged forward, and for a brief moment was ahead of him in the water.
Badump. He would not let himself lose.
The one-second interval between the last heartbeat and the moment when his fingers touched the wall was the longest second of his entire existence. Time slowed to a halt, and his body floated through the water, riding on a wave of euphoria, until he could feel the hard cement of the pool edge smash into his skin.
As his body touched the wall, everything returned to normal. Time, the noise of the stadium erupting into deafening cheers, his vision that had been reduced to a single flash of red for nearly two minutes . . . it all returned.
Gordon Tracy exploded from the water, raising his fist wearily into the air – ignoring the searing pain that ran down his arm from the exhaustion – and screamed with every ounce of strength that he had left in him. There, on the screen, were the words:
Gordon Tracy – Oregon: 1st Place.
He was distantly aware of his family jumping the railing of the stands to come to and greet him. Scott caught him and ruffled his hair, and John's voice cheered on ecstatically from some hidden speaker in the background. The entire moment blurred together into a single montage of noise and sound, ending with him collapsing into his father's arms only to be forced upward onto another platform.
A podium. It was so much like a dream that Gordon nearly pinched himself to see if he were awake. The bronze medal was given out, then the silver, which went to the swimmer from Iowa who looked distinctly irritated that he had lost.
"The Gold Medal goes to Gordon Tracy, Oregon State Team."
And just like it had happened thousands of times before while he had been asleep, a tall and dignified looking man lifted a gold medal and wrapped it around Gordon's neck. Just like he had a thousand times before, Gordon took the medal in his hands, kissed it once, and raised it towards the sky. For all of the people that had helped him reach the podium, he knew whom it was that he wanted to thank. He had done it over and over in his dreams, and only one name ever sounded right in his mind.
Hey, Mom. This one's for you.
"Hey man, beer?"
Gordon laughed and shook his head, politely declining the offer. "Come on Hurk, you know I have to race tomorrow. I'd be screwed over if I had anything."
The other boy laughed in return, and raised his bottle in a salute to his team-mate. "Whatever floats your boat. Me, I'm gonna get pissed tonight and enjoy the moment, because there's no way in hell that I'm winning any medals here. Shit, you've been in one race and you already have a gold."
Fingering the medal that still hung around his neck, Gordon grinned and shrugged nonchalantly. "Whatever."
The two young men stood side by side by the boat docks of one of Tampa Beach's many marina's, and watched the yachts bob up and down in the gently rolling froth. The marina and its buildings had been reserved by the organizers of the competition as a place for the athletes to relax during the evening hours. Gordon found the atmosphere, one of water and water-craft, especially calming, and he was thankful that the committee had had the foresight to pick such a fitting place for the night-time parties.
They obviously had not planned the alcohol - which had been quickly distributed to all involved as they had walked in the door - for there were many athletes present that were under the legal drinking age. That hadn't stopped the older men from bringing out the six-packs. On any other night Gordon would have been tempted to join in, but he understood the importance of having a clear mind during a race. He had no intentions of having a hang over during the freestyle event the next day.
Off on another dock, a loud and raucous cheer went up. A black form went flying off into the air, landing with a resounding splash in the water that doused the other people standing alongside. One figure stood alone at the end of the dock and raised his fist in the air in triumph.
"Towers probably threw him in," Hurk spat, tossing his brown hair out of habit, for there was no water in it to shake out. "That son of a bitch should get tossed in the water himself."
"You know him?"
"Yeah." The other boy gave the shadowy figure a dark look and spit contemptuously onto the wooden dock. "Met him last year at one of the sponsored competitions. Guy's got an ego the size of the moon."
Gordon looked briefly over at the crowd, who were fishing the victim out of the water, and had wondered how drunk the other young men were. "Wouldn't doubt it. I thought he was gonna kill me when I was up on the podium." The redhead shook his head. "I don't give a shit what he thinks, though. I won fair and square. He's got nothing to bitch about except his own short-comings."
"You mean he has them?" The other boy grinned and took a long swig from his drink. "Seriously, Tracy, I was grinning like a madman, and I lost the race completely, because of the look that Towers had on his face when you kicked his ass."
"I bet."
Instead of responding, Hurk gave his bottle of beer a sullen look and gestured towards the marina. "Come on, I'm out of drink. Let's go grab some more."
Shrugging in sympathy, Gordon followed his teammate back to the building.
"Sure is nice out." Leaning out over the balcony of the hotel room, Scott Tracy grinned and looked back in to where his father lay sprawled out over the bed. "I could get used to it."
The older man snorted and continued to relax. "You boys are becoming spoiled with all the palm trees around. Maybe we should relocate to Siberia for a bit."
Scott considered that for a moment, then dismissed the thought as quickly as it had been proposed. "I'd rather not." Far out in the distance, in the direction of the water, he could distinctly make out the roof of the marina rising above the surrounding homes. A dull noise drifted from that direction, a mirage of voices and cheering that had to originate at the party that his brother was at.
"I hope Gordon's not stupid enough to drink tonight. He's got a race tomorrow morning."
"He won't." Jeff rolled over on the bed so that he could look his son in the eye. "Believe me, Scott, when I say that nothing in this world could stand between him and winning the rest of his races. When he came to ask me if he could miss school . . ." The Tracy patriarch shook his head as if at the thought of the memory. "I've never seen your brother so serious about anything. I don't think I could have said no if I'd wanted to."
Scott nodded in response, thinking back to how dedicated his brother could be when he set his mind to something. "Yeah. Truth be told, though, I wasn't expecting him to win today. I guess I didn't know how good he really was. I mean, I knew that he liked to swim, but I'd never dreamt . . ."
The night was clear and crisp, and a warm Atlantic wind rustled Scott's hair, keeping him awake even though the hour was late. He stood silently on the edge of the world, looking over to the marina, wondering how Gordon's aptitude with swimming had passed by him unnoticed. He more than any of his brothers openly defended the red-head's actions the most, yet even he had unintentionally ignored Gordon in the past few months.
"Think he'll win tomorrow?"
"I'd like to see that," his father called from inside. "Because he also asked me something else."
"Hmm?"
"He wants to apply for WASP when he graduates."
Scott's eyes went wide at the announcement. "Geeze, that's a pretty big goal." And it was true – the elite unit, known as the World Aquanaut Security Patrol, only accepted the best of both swimmers and scholars, and he honestly didn't know if his brother was up to the academic challenge. "What are the requirements?"
"High. But if he buckles down these last few months, I think he can make it. His physical qualifications are more than high enough."
Hearing the proclamation from the mouth of his father gave it a significant impact. Scott smiled grimly, and banged his hands unconsciously against the railing. "This swim meet won't help him any with his grades."
He didn't say what was actually on his mind, though. In fact, he had no intention of bringing the topic up with his father at all.
"I'm a bit disappointed." The older man returned Scott's grim smile from the bed. "I was hoping that he would be willing to work with us. But it really is Gordon's choice."
"It's not as if WASP is a bad choice to begin with," Scott added quietly, more than disappointed that his brother would not be joining the team any time soon. "They do the same thing that we do."
"Generally."
The conversation was rapidly dying, and Scott – seeing no need to continue to hash about at Gordon's expense – simply shrugged and turned back to the scenery outside.
The older man yawned deeply, and fluffed the pillow under his head a bit. "Scott, I think I'm going to turn in. You're younger than me – stay up if you want."
"No." Turning away from the railing, Scott pulled the balcony door closed tight behind him. "I should probably get some sleep as well. If we're going to be up early tomorrow, I'd better have enough rest so that I can hold the camera without jostling it around." He glanced back at the window one more time, then thought better of going back out. "Gord will be fine."
His eyes narrowing ever so slightly in irritation, Gordon Tracy wondered why on Earth he had even bothered to follow Hurk into the marina. Almost everyone in the building was drinking some form of beer or another, some even taking in hard liquor. What was certain, however, was that Simon Towers was as sober as Gordon was. It was both frightening and startling at the same time, for it showed a dedication and intellect in the other man that was completely unexpected.
The older boy, his piercing blue eyes darting from person to person, stood near the beer table, and was only giving out drinks to those he seemed to like. From Hurk's angry expression, Gordon didn't have to even hear the conversation to know what was happening.
"Jesus, Towers, you don't own the goddamn beer. All I want is one can!" He raised his hands and roughly shoved the young man from Iowa forward.
The entire crowd seemed to stop and, as one, turn to watch Simon Towers' reaction. No one spoke, and Gordon wished that he could simply melt into the floor and escape the situation altogether. Hurk was his team-mate as well as a good friend, but Gordon did have limits as to how far he was willing to go for someone who was 'just a friend'. The last thing that he wanted to do was end up in a brawl with the older – and much stronger, by the looks of it – boy, who was now sneering.
"Dammit, is that you Jason Hurk?" Towers grimaced and began to look about the room again. "I thought I recognized you in the race. This takes the cake, though – I mean, I could beat you even if you were sober, but this is disgraceful! You can't even walk!"
Hurk stumbled backwards in a drunken fashion, and once again raised his hands. "Yeah, well, I remember you, too." He slurred his words horribly, and Gordon was worried that his friend would trip over something as small as a loose nail. "You wanna pick a fight with me?"
"With you?" Towers laughed incredulously and shook his head. "I have better things to do. Why would I risk hurting myself when I have a chance to win tomorrow?"
A livid red seeped onto Hurk's face, making the veins on his neck stand out like writhing snakes. "You bastard. Tracy's going to kick your sorry ass back to Iowa tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that!"
For the briefest of moments, a complex look of anger and jealousy passed across the other man's face. It was gone as soon as it appeared, however, to be replaced by the young man's trademark look of pure egoism. "Tracy? Don't make me laugh. Today was a fluke. That will become quite apparent tomorrow when I run over him in the Freestyle event."
"Like shit you will!"
"No," Towers replied quite calmly, "that's what his rich father will be scraping off the walls when I'm finished lapping him."
The words scraped at Gordon's mind, but he mentally slapped himself down and willed himself to remain calm. He had to remain inconspicuous in the crowd, or he would risk getting dragged into the verbal sparring match. Any other night he likely would have joined in, simply for the pleasure of seeing a person like Simon Towers taking a beating, but there was too much at stake. One fight, one wrong punch, and he would be disqualified from the entire competition.
"Towers-" Hurk began.
"If," Towers continued, "I had any respect for him, then I might be willing to accept your comments for the nonsense that they are. But I have to disagree, because, you see, I respect Gordon Tracy as much as I respect you."
Stay calm, Gordon though to himself, though he could feel the colour rising in his cheeks. He's just full of himself, it doesn't matter . . .
"That family is a joke. His father? He could pay for this entire competition out of his lunch money. The family lives on an island. They have everything handed to them on a silver plate."
As the words became more and more personal, Gordon found it harder and harder to maintain his self-control. He could feel himself physically shaking with the strain, and it was only a matter of time before something snapped. He couldn't even leave the room, for Towers would likely spot him on the way out.
"He's never had it hard in his life!" The other boy's words suddenly became very bitter, and he angrily punched at the table behind him. The bottles of beer rattled and one tipped over and rolled off the table, falling and smashing onto the floor. "Rich boys. The entire lot of them. They don't even work, I've heard. His brothers are a bunch of lazy louts that sit at home, and his Dad signs papers all day and makes billions."
The one part of Gordon's brain that wasn't already mentally beating the other boy to death decided that it was time to either leave - or to bring his fruitful imaginations to reality.
"If I had it as easy as Tracy does, I'd be winning the gold too!"
Say it one more time, Gordon thought as he slowly pushed his way through the crowd towards the young man.
I dare you. Say it.
"Bunch of worthless snobs. Every single one of them."
Many years back, Gordon had decided that it was never worth it to fight over something that involved only him. That thought had saved him from trouble on several occasions – yet, he still managed to find someone to punch at least several times a year. Rude words about him – he could ignore those. And with another race coming the next morning, he had come to the party with no intention of doing anything that could jeopardise his chances.
But rude comments about his family? Those practically carried the death penalty. Some things were more important than a simple race, and his brothers and father were definitely in that category.
The crowd parted before him, allowing him to step up to the beer table with remarkable ease. Several moments passed before Towers took notice of him, the other boy being a good half a foot taller at least.
Sneering, Towers remarked, "Look who finally wandered in from his private oasis."
"Watch what you say about my family," Gordon replied as calmly as he could, "or you won't be taking part in any race tomorrow."
His face clouding over briefly, the other boy seemed to weigh in his mind the two courses of action that were open for him. "We both know," he finally acknowledged at some length, "that neither of us is going to get in a fight. You're not stupid, Tracy. Filthy rich, maybe, but not stupid."
A growl escaped Gordon's lips, and he tightened his fists at his sides. As much as he hated to admit it, Towers had a point. He really had no intention of fighting, no matter how angry he was with the other boy, and Towers obviously knew the implications of fighting as well.
"I'm not gonna stand here and let you insult my family."
Towers shrugged, then absently grabbed a beer can from behind his back and tossed it in Hurk's direction. The can smacked into the young man's forehead with a thud, sending him sprawling to the ground, unconscious.
"Fair enough. Why don't we settle it, then?"
"What're you trying to pull? Can't we deal with this tomorrow?"
"Nothing." Towers gave a very suave grin - and sauntered slightly in the direction of the door. "I just think that we can resolve this like the gentlemen that we are. Your daddy wouldn't want you to be fighting now, would he? And I don't think we want to risk ruining the race tomorrow because of a lack of concentration."
It had to end there; Gordon refused to stand by and be insulted by the pompous bastard in front of him, let alone be forced to play by his rules. Yet, he had no option – if his father found out that he had been fighting . . . And he, like Towers, had no intention of ruining the race in the morning. No, the issue had to be settled that night.
"Fine." The word was practically ripped from his throat. "What'd you have in mind?"
"Why not a race?" Towers shrugged nonchalantly, while the crowd simply stood by and watched. "Something other than swimming."
"Maybe."
Towers looked at the roof for a moment, thought, then snapped his fingers. "I assume you know how to drive a boat?"
It was incredible, Gordon thought, how the asshole managed to insult with nearly every one of his waking breaths. "Of course I can."
"Oh right, I forgot, you live on an island. How stupid of me."
Several men in the crowd, along with their dates, laughed at the remark.
Gordon narrowed his eyes and prayed that he wouldn't lose it and simply knock Towers out on the spot.
"Have you ever used a Hydrofoil, Gordon? They're an interesting enough craft."
"Course I have. I have a license to drive anything like that." He hadn't had a great deal of practice with that craft specifically, but how much harder could it be than driving a speed-boat? And he had taken one of Brains' prototypes out onto the Pacific, and it had handled pretty well. A person had to be careful when driving it, of course, but Gordon considered himself to be proficient enough with boats to not have to worry.
"All right." Another sneer tugged at Towers' lips. "Would it be too hard to ask for you to pay the fee to rent the craft? They have them right here at the marina."
Silently, Gordon reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He flipped it open and withdrew a silver-colored credit card. "Only so that I can have the pleasure of leaving you in my wake."
The two locked eyes for a long moment, then wordlessly made their way to the door. The crowd followed silently behind, keeping several steps back as though they were fearful of what might happen.
From inside the marina, a weary and slightly more sober-sounding Jason Hurk called out, "Tracy? You there?"
"He's outside," someone offered from the back of the group.
"What?" Pushing himself clumsily to his feet, Hurk staggered towards the door, bumping into several people along the way. "Leaving without me? The bastard."
For anyone watching from the sidelines, it must have appeared to be something out of a movie. The waters of the marina rippled up the sides of the docks, driven by a strong current and a progressively fiercer night wind. Bright white spotlights from the building doused the area in a halo, illuminating two watercraft and the young men who stood beside them.
"You ready, Tracy?"
"You better believe it. Ready to lose?"
Towers laughed and finished zippering up the water suit that had been given to him by the boat manager. "Tracy, I admire your stamina. Unfortunately, I won't be the one that's going to lose."
Another pair approached the two from behind. One, a pretty blonde girl nearly Gordon's height, walked over to Towers and wrapped her arm around his neck. The other, who the light revealed to be Jason Hurk, jokingly wrapped his arm around Gordon as he walked up to him.
"Hey!" Blushing, Gordon threw the other boy's arm off him and attempted to stifle a laugh. "Come on, Hurk, this is serious."
"Aw." Shrugging, the other boy crossed his eyes and tried to finish lacing up his boot, which was undone and only half on his foot. "Just thought I'd give you a hug for good luck."
The blonde smiled sweetly at the two boys and tightened her hold on Towers ever so slightly. "Simon is going to wipe the floor with you two idiots."
Glaring at the woman, Gordon went back to prepping his hydrofoil. "Well, don't say I didn't warn you at least. Dragging your girlfriend into this."
"It was your idea, Tracy, and if you get a partner, then so do I."
"Just for spotting!" Gordon growled, gradually growing more and more irritated with both the engine of the hydrofoil and with Towers' condescending attitude. "It'd be suicide to go out without a spotter, especially at night with the way the water is. You know that. We could hit something, and that'd be the end of it."
The other boy shrugged, leaned over, and opened the hatch to his hydrofoil. The craft were large by normal standards - and offered the luxury of having the cockpit sealed air tight from the outside environment. "Nice boats, Tracy. But I suppose you don't go cheap, do you?"
Trying his best to ignore Towers, Gordon – satisfied with the state of the craft – slammed the engine hatch shut and flipped open the hatch to the driving compartment. "Come on, Hurk, let's get this over with. I wanna get some sleep tonight."
Hurk nodded, jumping in behind Gordon and pulling the hatch shut behind him. The inside of the craft was akin to the front seats of a car, tight, yet spacious enough to afford the driver and the co-pilot some much needed breathing room.
Strapping in, Gordon quickly brought online the systems, and the cockpit flashed to life with an eerie golden glow. Read-out monitors blinked on and off, and the light reflected out of the window onto the ripping water beyond. That finished, Gordon reached to the ceiling and pulled down the oxygen mask and helmet that was built into the ship. The tank was stored safely under his seat, though the entire set-up was only a precaution in the case the craft should sink and take on water.
The mask in place, Gordon flipped a switch that activated the in-craft radio that would allow him and Hurk to communicate while wearing the breathing gear.
"Y'ready? Mask all set?" Gordon waved a hand to catch the other boy's attention.
"Sure." Hurk grunted and pulled his crash webbing tighter just to be safe. "Goddamn, I wish I weren't so bloody hungover. You're just lucky that the stuff runs through my system fast. One piss and I'm fine."
"Thanks, Hurk," Gordon muttered, taking the control systems in his hands and gently nudging the craft towards the makeshift start line that had been drawn. "Like I wanted to hear that."
Almost without noise, the craft gracefully floated over to one of the docks where a white rope had been laced around a post. To the side, Gordon could see Towers' craft following with the grace inherent of a skilled driver.
"Dammit, Hurk, we could lose this."
"You think? I thought you were an expert at this."
"I am," Gordon grumbled, "but I think he is too." As the tip of the craft finally reached the edge of the dock, Gordon put it back into neutral gear for a moment and turned to his friend. "Okay, Hurk, you know what to do."
"O'course. I watch the map read-out, and if you're heading towards anything big I'm supposed to yell."
"Good enough."
As the seconds ticked down until the call was given to start, Gordon tried to calm himself and find the place in his body that he hid his mind when he raced. The lights around him began to congeal, and the only thing that he saw was the dark watery path ahead of him. That was the focus he was looking for. He didn't hear the people yelling outside, he didn't even see Hurk as the boy absently adjusted his harness again.
He saw, in the far distance, a buoy floating out on the water, illuminated by a bright red bulb. It bobbed up and down in the wake, teasing him, the light refracting as though it were being seen through water.
And once again, all he cared about was the red stripe in the distance.
Distantly, Gordon heard a voice outside cry, "Ready your craft!"
That was simple enough. Gripping the controls tightly, Gordon leaned forward slightly and put the slightest amount of pressure on the acceleration pedal. The craft wouldn't go anywhere until he changed gears, but it made a decent roaring sound that he hoped would at least tell Towers that he also knew what he was doing.
"Set!"
Gordon's hand waited, poised, over the released control.
"Go!"
In all of a split second, the redhead snapped the craft into gear, cued the acceleration, and was thrown back in his chair as the craft nearly took off out of the water. As it picked up speed the ride became less bumpy, for the body of the hydrofoil rose out of the water with the wind pressure to ride on two ski-like protrusions out the bottom. Properly driven, it offered a smoother ride than any airplane or car out there.
"We're coming up to the first buoy, Gord!"
"I see it." Clenching his teeth, Gordon maneuvered the craft ever so slightly to the right, expertly slaloming it around the first of ten rendezvous buoys that were set out in the waters of the Atlantic. The motion sent a spray of water up onto the windshield of the craft, momentarily blinding Gordon and forcing him to rely on his computer read-out to drive.
"Where's Towers?"
"Coming up behind." A low roar began to vibrate through the cabin, and Hurk turned to Gordon with a pissed off expression. "The bastard's passing us in his lane. He's gonna kill himself going that fast!"
The hydrofoil lurched violently to the side as the wake from the other craft slammed into its side. Grimacing, Gordon held the craft on course with pure strength, his arms burning under the pressure that the controls were exerting to try and spin it out of control. The hydrofoil quickly lost speed as he cut back in order to keep it on the water.
Up ahead and to the left, Towers' craft was already passing the third marker. It wouldn't be long before he would be too far ahead to catch.
"Hold on, Hurk." Slamming his foot down as hard as he dared, Gordon opened the throttle completely on the craft. The feeling of flying became even more pronounced - as the bottom rungs of the hydrofoil trailed ever so slightly through the upper mist of the water. He was sure that Hurk trusted his judgement, as the other boy didn't say a word the entire while.
Soon Towers' craft came back into view, and Gordon had the utmost joy of sending a wave of water down on his opponent's craft. "Take that, you asshole."
Buoy after buoy flashed by as the two hydrofoils traded the lead back and forth, showering each other with waves of seawater and raising the intensity of the two drivers tenfold. In the ever-approaching distance a large red beckon flashed in the darkness, the last in the line of ten that signaled the halfway point of the race. The most dangerous portion of the course was coming up – the one hundred and eighty-degree turn that would take both crafts back in the direction of the marina.
It was just like in the pool. Every minute detail – the pounding of the waves on the sides of the hydrofoil, the sharp whine of the engines, the occasional bounce as the craft touched too deep into the water – became pronounced and highlighted.
Then the turn was upon them, and he instinctively brought the craft around in a tight arc, every bolt and bearing in the hydrofoil protesting as he took the ship to the very limit of its structural stability. The momentum of the movement slammed him into the side of his crash webbing, and he struggled to keep his hands firmly on the controls. The turn was almost finished, was so close to being complete –
And suddenly, as if snapping out of a fog, Gordon heard Hurk's already half finished yell:
" - Christ!"
The next second was the longest of Gordon's entire life; he could see Towers' craft come up along side his, and it was obvious from the trajectory that they had both hit the turn at the same time. What sent an engulfing and paralyzing fear through his chest was the realization that they had both, in their blind and driven attempts to win, taken the inside corner on the return lap, instead of the outside, in the hopes of shaving a few seconds off their time. The proximity of the other craft, and the centrifugal wake that followed it, meant only one thing.
Both craft were about to be bombarded by the other's wake pattern, and Gordon knew what that could do at such a close range on such a close turn.
The moment passed, and the last thing that he had time to do before the wall of water hit was close his eyes. The red light of the buoy glared under his eyelids no matter how tight he clenched them, giving the immediate impression of a blazing fire. Then there was a roaring sound, the feeling of the craft rising in the air and coming down –
And then, only blackness.
TBC in Part 2 – Reaction.