Some (more) small re-re-editing has been done. Yes, there are changes, more of which will become clear in the next few bits. Thanks, for the reviews/ views on Alan.
4
Thing about rescues was: you were totally stoked, absolutely amped in the middle of one, right? Being out there, with no time to think, just do; follow the simulation, get to the victims and save some troubled butts. Well, there was nothing else like it. Not even surfing or driving came close.
Best of all, maybe, was the sense of partnership. He could, like, be rolling around in twenty-foot killer waves, about to get scrubbed into coral reefs as sharp as cheese graters, with shreds of rubber raft all around and a terrified babe clinging to him, but all he had to do was thrust an arm out. There'd be help, always. A handclasp and wrist-lock, then up and out he'd be pulled, by Gordon (his brother; sort of a 5'11" walking appetite, with red hair). Then, into the rescue basket, or Thunderbird 4, and back to safety. Gordon had his back, just like Alan had his.
For real, the rescues were great. It was later, when the excitement died, the adrenaline wore off and the salvaged hottie's kiss had faded, that he wasn't so hyped about. That's when you started to notice all the ouchies, bruisies and hurties, and that cold, stringy sea-watery stuff you were coughing up made you want to vomit. Definitely, he could skip all of that. But it still beat the alternative, which Alan could not, absolutely refused to believe he was being slammed with, again. School.
Not just any school, either. Wharton Academy for uber-stuffy, painfully wealthy, non-surfing, no-rescue-performing blue-bloods, with (get this) uniforms. All the way back from the Curacao rescue (unexplained seismic and tsunami activity) Alan complained to his brother and TinTin, while Virgil flew them home.
Back in the rear crew cabin, over the rumble and vibration of Thunderbird 2's mighty engines, he… well… whined, actually.
"I mean, c'mon, it's not like I need to be baby-sat! Not anymore! Dude, I'm like, fifteen. I'm frickin' Methuselah!"
A little water-shriveled but more-or-less dry, Gordon was on his way up to the cockpit. He'd toweled off and changed uniforms back in the head. Now he paused, one hand on the ladder rail, and gave Alan a helpless sort of shrug.
"I'd let y' stay on, Alan… not that anyone listens t' me, away from th' water. Still, there's always summer holiday t' look forward to, isn't there? Over an' done, an' back t' the island before y' know it, trust me."
And then, stifling a yawn, Gordon gave the two of them a nod, and started up the ladder, his heavy footfalls on the pierced-metal steps resounding through the cabin. Alan glared directly ahead until his brother had climbed from sight, arms folded upon his chest, slouching back in the padded seat.
TinTin said nothing at all, which was, like, totally against the 'chick code of ethics'. Weren't they supposed to provide comfort, and stuff? But, nooooo. Nothing. Not a word, when he was clearly in dire need. Of course, she, too, was being packed off next week, to Paris. But, that was different.
"I mean, at least you're going someplace with girls, and an actual city!" He went on, still vexed. "I'm stuck in Outer Butt-Smack, with… with nerds. I might as well be dead!"
TinTin sighed, unstrapped, and rose from her seat (across from Alan's and just to the right). With a soft farewell and a quick, chilly kiss, the girl excused herself.
"You must forgive me, Alain. I… I believe they have need of me, away in the cockpit."
At this point, needing to think, TinTin would have said anything to get away from her sulky comrade. She had the oddest feeling… What Alan (had he not been so bitterly, vociferously whiney) would have termed 'déjà vu'.
Things had somehow shifted, and TinTin wasn't quite certain how to respond. She was achy and tired, and deeply confused. Since they'd picked him up in Spain, Gordon had been friendly and kind. In word and deed, as thoughtful as an older brother, but that was all. He'd tousled her shorn hair with rough affection, but none of the barely-suppressed longing she'd grown so accustomed to. What had happened to him? To all of them?
Leaving Alan behind, TinTin climbed the ladder, then crossed an upper deck to the cockpit hatch. A touch to the palm scanner admitted her, and the girl stepped shyly within.
Up here, 2's thunderous rumble was muted to a deep, pulsing growl. Much calmer. Washed in blinking red instrument glow and full silver moonlight, Virgil and Gordon looked serene and other-worldly, like something out of a film show. They'd been talking quietly together, but ended their conversation when the girl came forward.
"Hello, Angel," Said Gordon, glancing back with a smile. "Alan's still on about schoolin', is he?"
TinTin nodded, carefully not looking at Virgil. Big and pleasantly handsome, the older Tracy still filled her with a panicky roil of emotions; pain and desire and a sick sense of just how close she'd come to humiliating herself over him. Head proudly erect upon her swan-like neck, TinTin changed the subject.
"Bon soir, Gordon… Virgil. The flight goes well?"
"Right as rain."
Gordon patted the hand she'd placed on his left shoulder, then gave the stooping girl an awkward, one-armed hug. He ruffled her shortened hair again, but kept most of his attention, and one hand, on the steering yoke. Virgil had handed over control, and was stretching out in his seat for a quick catnap.
" 'Night… you two," he said, yawning hugely. "Wake… me up…. Anything changes…" Increasingly slow, his words dragged off into indistinct mumbles, then soft, hyphenated snores.
TinTin's 'blocks'… the mental shields behind which she hidher sensitive and powerful mind… were more an act of will than anything else. Constant, focused concentration, like keeping her abdominal muscles permanently clenched in expectation of a sudden punch. She'd gotten used to maintaining her guard, and actually had to think herself through relaxing it.
The effect, around more than one person, was rather confusing. Virgil was dreaming, and the Dali-esque imagery muddled her purpose. He had a nice mind, a safe one; smoky-warm as coffee on a cold day. Not for her, though.
With a quick, fumbling touch (she was new at this, still) TinTin deepened his rest. Virgil Tracy was about to get the best, most blissful sleep of his life.
His breathing changed, slowed and quieted beneath her gentle 'hand'. TinTin wanted to talk, without being overheard, and nudging Virgil into a near-coma seemed the safest way to do it.
All this time, she'd been perched on the arm of Gordon's seat (and there was another nice mind, though rather more hormone-clouded). He smelled of seawater, Handi-Wipes and cough syrup. The minutiae of piloting tumbled through his busy thoughts, along with a sort of tired contentment, and recurring images of another girl. Indeed, things had changed.
That her mind still fit against his, that he didn't shrink from the contact any more than he ducked her hand upon his shoulder, remained the same. But, his sense of well-being… that was new, and it came from elsewhere. TinTin's inexpert healing attempts hadn't done all this. Someone else had.
"Gordon…?" She ventured, at last, staring through the view screen at tattered clouds and black, lacy ocean.
"Hmm?"
"Do you… do you suppose that it would be a safe thing, to tell your father of my…" Talent? Curse? Ability?
"Y'r skill?" He finished for her, completing the thought.
"Oui, puet-etre. My 'skill'. It seems to me that… that if I explained to him this ability, your father might be easier in heart and mind about letting me assist with the difficult missions. N'est-ce pas?"
Unexpressed, but there, was the silent request that he be with her when she faced Jeff Tracy. Her small hand had tightened slightly on the Olympic swimmer's uniformed shoulder. He looked up at her, hazel eyes dark in the moon-lit cockpit. Even before the words, rampart-solid and warm as a Hudson's Bay blanket, came the sense of support.
"Can't say, Angel. He's quite a way of doin' the unexpected, hasn't he? But, if y' like, I'll put in my bit. We'll bring him 'round. My word on it."
And she realized something, then. That some sort of danger had passed. That they in fact loved each other far too much to ever be other than friends. She kissed his cheek; a little regretful, but mostly relieved, saying,
"Merci, Mon Coeur… mille fois, et mille encore."
Once before, she'd risked what she knew was hers, to grasp at a glimmering soap bubble. Never, not ever, again.
Tracy Island-
Brains had left Scott Tracy's bedside, after satisfying himself that the young man's gastroenteritis was under control. He'd been taken suddenly, severely ill. Food poisoning, as it turned out, most probably contracted from something he'd eaten during the Tahitian mail run. Weirdly enough, the dog, too, had fallen sick, both of them wracked with fever, cramps and vomiting. Brains had put in calls to the Papeete Hospital and Heath Department, then rolled up his sleeves and gone to work. Sometimes it seemed as though repairing Tracys was his single most frequent activity…
Scott had begun to improve now, after nearly 48 hours of constant medical attention, and Brains was finally able to step away from the lab. He had another phone call to make, of a very personal, very important nature.
Scurrying into his office, the engineer/ physician adjusted the blinds on his observation window so that he could see Scott's bio-monitors, then reached into his top right desk drawer. There, under a stack of blueprints and diagrams, lay his phone.
Taking it up, 'Hackenbacker' punched in a certain number with the thumb of his right hand, while pouring stale coffee into a ceramic mug with his left. The pot had shut itself off sometime in the night, but cold caffeine was better than nothing, and he wanted to stay alert.
He heard a chorus of distantly chirped tones between swallows of muddy coffee. Then,
"Thank you for calling the Empire State University communication management system," a woman's bold, cheery voice congratulated him.
"If you know your party's extension, you may input it at any time!"
(He'd won the sweepstakes, now.)
"For the Office of Student Affairs, press '1'. For the…"
5… 3… 0… 9… #, Brains entered hurriedly, cutting off the computerized female's insanely cheerful rant. He couldn't help wondering if she was disappointed, though; if secretly, just once, she longed to reach the end of her tiresome list. Then, someone picked up, derailing his train of thought.
"Doctor… Hackenbacker, I presume?" teased a familiar, laughing voice. Brains set down his coffee mug, only just not missing the metal desk, his blue eyes flying to the phone's little screen. It would be just after dawn, over there.
"G- good morning, Doctor Bremmerman," he greeted the woman, whose mischievous face had appeared on the magnified display field. She was thin, with straight brown hair drawn into a tight, narrow ponytail. She wore a heavy sweater and jeans beneath an open lab coat, and her eyes were bright blue. (Slightly squinted, too; Myrna always removed her glasses to talk to him. One of the many small things that told him how much he was loved.)
"I h- have a c- couple of packages to, ah… to deliver, via airmail. T- Tuesday next, at 0930, if it, ah… it s- suits your schedule."
Myrna sighed.
"And it's been such a quiet month… I'm to convey them the rest of the way, sans colleague, I take it?" she inquired, a hopeful, half-asked question emerging through glance and tone, rather than words.
Brains gave his wife a quick, shy smile.
"No. I'll… er… c- come along; 'ride sh- shotgun', and inspect the, ah… the premises."
"Uh-oh," Myrna laughed, pushing at her hair, unnecessarily, with one thin hand. "I'd better whip my grad students into shape, then, and warn the 'destination' that a board member is on his way."
Code was essential. Any call could be intercepted, any message decrypted. Thus, few details, no place names, no direct references to International Rescue, or the boys, and painfully rare contact.
Myrna Bremmerman was a recently tenured professor of particle physics at the prestigious Empire State University. Her blossoming academic career required that she live away from her husband, who had vital business on Kanaho… Tracy Island. On the bright side, this allowed her to keep tabs on their son, and Alan Tracy, throughout the Wharton school year. Also… their passionate reunions were almost worth being separated for. Almost.
His smile broadened as Brains regarded the transmitted image of his wife. (More beautiful, intelligent and steadfast than outside appearance could begin to convey. Not just a gem, she was all the world.)
"R- roger that. Th- there before you, ah… you know it, D- Doctor."
Myrna gave him that sidelong look, the one he'd first noticed, and almost failed to believe, over a shared lab bench.
"Thank you for the call, Dr. Hackenbacker, and I look forward to our upcoming, hopefully productive, collaboration."
That rocked him back a bit. She wanted another child? With a long-distance marriage, papers to publish, and research grants to win?
Women, Brains decided, picked the strangest moments to declare these things. Still… perhaps a baby girl, this time?
He recalled how little Fermat, dodging his bath, had run screaming and laughing through the cramped apartment, pursued by a mock-wrathful Myrna. 'Dirty Bert', she'd nicknamed the fleeing toddler. All at once, Brains, too, wanted another. He nodded, saying,
"W- we do good work, Doctor B- Bremmerman. A follow-up would, ah… would b- be most intriguing."
She gave her husband a fond smile.
"Wonderful. I'll clear my calendar, and pencil you in."
4 days later-
Alan Tracy, put-upon, misunderstood, unloved, hero of his own private soap opera, slouched before the computer in his determinedly messy bedroom. The French doors were open to acool breeze, sunlight and birdsong. Not that Alan noticed, or cared. Small birds pecking at the split skins of fallen star-apples on his balcony meant nothing at all. Not when only two more days separated him from imprisonment, and Gordon, Fermat and TinTin were out in the pool, laughing together.
For something to do, he'd broken into the International Rescue comm system, again, and was listening in as Scott and Virgil wrapped up delivery of another space station component, a massive hull plate for the outer ring. Thunderbird 5 would be up and running by the time John came home from Mars. A cold, hard setting for its brilliant occupant. Kind of like the diamond ring his mom had dug out, and taken to wearing, again. Nothing was going right.
Alan moved the mouse around, pretending to stab things on screen with the cursor arrow while Scott and Virgil chattered away.
"Watch it, Virge!" Scott was saying, out where life was good and things were happening. Dang, but it sucked to be a teenager! Especially in this lame family…
"The plate's drifting. Bring it back a few inches!"
"Atto-parsecs," Alan corrected, sullenly. John half-seriously referred to inches as 'atto-parsecs', and Alan had picked up the habit, just because it confused people. Didn't say it over the comm, though. No sense letting everyone know he'd cracked the security codes, again. They hated that.
"Take it easy, Scott," Virgil replied from Thunderbird 3, fifteen-thousand miles away. "I've got her."
While Alan had… nothing.
Outside, on the upper pool deck, Gordon had just hauled himself clear of the water. He sparkled with droplets in the afternoon light, all peeling sunburn, yellow board shorts and broad grin.
It was a grand, lazy sort of day, one he'd pay for later with unending laps. Every so often, though, one had to break with routine, if only to make all those wind-sprints and kick sets endurable. He offered TinTin a hand up, showing off a bit by pulling her out of the water with one arm. Fermat, white and pink as boiled crab meat, splashed about with the yapping dog at the shallow end, watching bubbles and day-dreaming of sonic fusion.
Birds clattered and rasped, wind chimes tinkled, and branches swayed in the light breeze. Somewhere off in the kitchen, Grandmother Tracy called for Kyrano, her sharp words blending with the music from TinTin's radio, and the roaring sea. Nice day. Too nice to last, as it happened.
A voice, deep and angry as something chained away in the pits of Tartarus, shouted,
"Gordon David Tracy!"
He released TinTin's hand, head snapping round in the direction of the house, and his father's office.
"Bloody hell," he breathed, ignoring the girl's worried expression, the quizzical terrier, and Fermat's suddenly lifted head. It was 'David' that clinched matters. The loud use of his middle name meant that Gordon wasn't merely in trouble; he was dead where he stood.
"Gordon… qu'est-que c'est?" TinTin asked him, or some such heathen gibberish.
Not too late to run off, was it? Maybe start a new life for himself in the Navy? Join the circus?
"GORDON! Get your sorry ass up here, Mister! Right the hell now!"
His educational short-cut had been discovered, it seemed.
Fermat clambered up the shallow-end steps and pattered over, squinting like a cartoon mole. (No glasses.)
"W- what's… going on?" he asked, as Gordon began moving.
"Nothin'," the young aquanaut responded glumly. He'd had a pretty fair run, all things considered, and perhaps the end would be quick.
TinTin and Fermat exchanged worried glances, then looked across the pool to Alan's balcony. The other quarter of their little foursome had yet to emerge, however. He'd been distracted.
Bored with his older brothers' chipper shop-talk, Alan had begun switching comm channels. Idly, at first, listening to the way their voices distorted and cleared as he slid the cursor. Then, something happened. Another voice, barely audible through all the cascading static, threaded its way to his ears.
Alan leaned forward, a scowl like a muddy boot-print planted on his baby-soft face. It sounded like… well… like John, if his second brother had decided to leave Mars and, y' know, talk backward, or something. Got weirder, though; according to his computer, the call originated from low orbit, 180 degrees from where Thunderbird 5 was being re-constructed.
Again came the brief, tense message, faint and broken up. On a sudden hunch, Alan made an audio clip, then played it back, in reverse.
"…from Orbital Weather Station 5," went the voice. Definitely, impossibly, John's. "If anyone is left capable of receiving… message… shutting down. Please advise."
Forgetting that it was a recording he'd just heard, Alan spoke aloud.
"Not funny, Dude. You want drama, update your role-play character. He's, like, lost in cyberspace, drumming his fingers and stuff." Then, pressing the send key,
"John…? You there? Seriously, quit kidding around, Man."
Nothing.
"Dude, for real, this isn't funny. You need help, or something? Where are you?"
And then again, so faint and broken that his comm on highest stretch could barely catch it.
"?siht si ohW"
"Alan… Duh!" the boy replied after another quick translation. Partly, he felt stupid, partly confused, and mostly worried.
"?nalA s'lleh… ohW"
"Hah-hah. I'm busting a gut over here, Brainiac. Alan, your brother, okay? Stop fooling around, and talk normal!"
(Like he ever had. Still…)
"…uoy era esab hcihW. Gnidrocer… noitcelfer… dnik emos t'nsi… ecnatsissa dna ylppuser… ycarT ttaM si… era uoy reveohw, netsiL"
Reversed, the voice was a mixture of professionalism, concern and wobbly relief, as though Alan's backward reply was some sort of lifeline. But… 'Matt'? All at once, Alan had a very weird feeling. As though he were contacting someone who didn't actually exist. Not here, anyways.
"I'm broadcasting from the Island Base, John. Or, um… whatever you call yourself. Listen, keep this channel open, okay? Keep transmitting. I gotta get help, on this one, but I won't be long. Hang on, okay? You hear me, John?"
Static, rising and falling like the murmured crackle of a dying fire. Then,
".yb gnidnats ,SWO. uoy knaht dna, esaB dnalsI, dootsrednU."
Suddenly galvanized, Alan stood up quickly enough to send his wheeled student chair squealing across the carpeted floor.
"Fermat!" He yelled, sprinting from the room, "Gordon! TinTin! Get over here!"