Okay, I lied. Next-to-the-last chapter. Edited, waaaaay after dinner.

71: Pick-up

Washington, D.C.-

Cold rain and reeking trash, graffiti and vagrants. The city struggled along in the usual grim chaos of crime, poverty and desperately-clutched hope. Most legitimate traffic kept to sheltered skyways and toll roads whose reinforced pylons crossed the lower city like a set of enormous cage bars.

True, power had flickered for awhile, but (considering that most of the slums' electricity and water were 'diverted', anyway) the people hardly noticed. There were a few extra cop cars around, but they didn't linger and neither did John Tracy.

He'd acquired some undamaged clothing and shoes inside the bunker, which turned out to be a very good thing; this wasn't the sort of place you wanted to walk through looking like someone in the final stages of victimization. Bad enough that he was obviously alone… Alone and half-naked would have gotten him killed.

He still had the Glock, though; another very good thing (and one he made absolutely no effort to conceal). Public phones and security cameras down here had long since been jerked off their mountings and broken down for parts, but a local bar owner was willing to barter time on her cell phone for some help patching into a few extra cable channels. She got thirty new sports and music sites on her TV in return for a pair of short, coded phone calls and a Heineken, which John did not intend to open until he reached White Sands. Fortunately, it fit into a trouser pocket; wet and cold, but somehow comforting. Figured he could sneak the can into quarantine, somehow…

Two calls (one to Island Base, another to a local operative) and pick-up was arranged, both for himself and for a certain frightened girl in Philadelphia, whom he very much hadn't forgotten. After that, John sat at the bar trying not to smear blood on the dented wooden countertop, with one hand at his gun and the other propping him upright. Damn gravity.

Maybe they had bigger concerns, or maybe he just looked too unhealthy to mess with, but the Left Hook's other patrons left John strictly alone (though a kid sweeping the floor asked him what Mars was like, and handed him a carefully-smoothed napkin to autograph).

Fifteen minutes later, John was stretched out, asleep, in the back of a rusted old delivery van. 'Speedee Auto Partz', its fading paint claimed… but not very convincingly. The interior's high-tech medical equipment argued otherwise, while its body panels changed configuration twice before they left D.C. Best to blend with the surroundings, after all. The driver was an old friend, Brick Sampson. Its medic was his wife, Mary.

As the entire east coast of the United States was one vast, jagged cityscape, the van's driver had to cut westward to reach a spot remote enough for Thunderbird 2. John slept through most of the trip, waking only to have his wounds treated and swallow a pill, and once again when the IR medic tried to remove his Heineken.

(But, dammit, the beer was going to stay. Take the gun if they must… do whatever the hell else they felt like, medically…but he had plans for that beer.)

The rhythm of a long road trip underlay his sleep; the stops and swerves, the jolting gear shifts and beating windshield wipers all somehow weaving themselves through vivid dreams of Mars. Even asleep, he felt it, and knew himself to be safe.

The van's vibration and pitch changed when at last they turned off the paved road and onto an icy creek bed somewhere in the wooded hills of West Virginia.

John woke from a conversation with Kurt Cobain and Wehrner Von Braun, to find that they'd reached their destination. He sat up, dislodging a number of bio-sensors and a red plaid blanket. Got his first wide-awake look at the medic, then, who turned out to be a pretty young brunette. He'd just started to thank her, when the van's rear doors were all but yanked from their hinges, revealing Virgil.

His younger brother stood framed there in cold, tree-filtered sunlight, stooping just a little to squint within.

"John!" he shouted, for some damn reason.

"Yeah. Last time I checked… but the day's not over, yet."

His brother was already bounding inside like someone's muddy German shepherd. Before Virgil could do something stupid like hug him, John raised an intervening hand (using the un-slung, least-likely-to-fall-off arm).

"Wait," he ordered, uselessly; but Virgil got hold of him anyhow, grinning like a fool.

"Damn, John…" his brown-eyed brother laughed, giving him a surprisingly cautious back-pat, "looks like you've been ridden hard and put away wet."

(Not too far off the mark, actually…)

"Rough day at the office," John replied.

Shrugging turned out to be a painfully bad idea, so he just pulled away from Virgil and got out of the van in slow, careful, lower-lip-bitten stages. Caught a brief, swirling impression of bare trees and melting snow before a second brother claimed his attention.

Scott Tracy waited just outside the doors, only slightly more patient than Virgil had been. He settled for a brisk handshake.

"Good to see you again, John. Damn good to see you."

To the medic and driver (out of the van themselves, now) Scott said earnestly,

"Thanks, both of you. Can't tell you how much it means to have this mangy stray carted home, finally."

He pumped their hands with athletic vigor. Then, flashing a swift grin, Scott returned his focus to John.

"Is that a beer in your pocket, Little Brother, or are you just happy to see me?"

Yeah. Home, sweet home. He missed Endurance, already.

"Beer, wise-ass; and it's reserved for a special occasion. Hands off."

Having taken their leave of the two operatives (Max Peck and Mindy Swan; numbers 35 and 81, respectively), the three brothers started off along a rocky, winding path. Bit treacherous with all the soggy snow and dripping branches, but they managed.

"So…" Scott drawled, breath misting white and hands tucked deep in that old bomber jacket of his, "went and got married, huh?"

"Yeah," said John, trying not to look as winded and sick as he felt. Double-damn gravity.

Long, blue tree shadows striped their path, the bare trunks and branches dividing the wind like clarinet reeds.

"…to an older woman," Scott prodded, grinning at him again.

"A short older woman," Virgil added.

Striding along to either side of John, both were ready to help if he showed signs of flagging… but that didn't mean that they had to be quiet, or polite, either.

"I mean," (Scott was actually laughing, now.) "I realize it's lonely on Mars, but damn, little brother! You just couldn't wait?"

Should have stuck with the van, which was still backing its cautious way down the creek bed. Not too late to flag them down, maybe…

"I'd have loaned you Shari," Virgil told him, as though it was all one big helluva funny joke. "She's still under warranty, at least. Much lower mileage."

Fine.

John stopped walking. His brothers paused, leaning in a little just in case he was about to collapse.

"Okay. I'm married, you're not. So, which one of us is getting sex on a regular basis? Oh, yeah; that'd be me. Case closed. Now, shut the hell up, before I decide to hitchhike."

(A lie, of course… about the regular sex… but they didn't have to know that.)

Scott and Virgil were a little more respectful, after that, but not much. Subject changed, though, turning to talk of the Red Path, and of John's mission. Not exactly a conference, but nice, just the same. Maybe he was glad to see them. A little.

The brothers reached a clearing about a quarter of an hour later, the bald crest of a lofty, snaking ridge. There, concealed by her light-warping force shield, perched Thunderbird 2.

Virgil de-cloaked the mighty cargolifter with a magician's proud flourish and remote control button-press. Then, once more giving his newly-come brother a gentle back-pat, he said,

"Welcome aboard, John. Welcome home."