Jeff

…

/// She'd named him Michael, for her father. It figured. I wasn't thrilled, but I didn't think I had much right to complain.

It had been a tense, difficult labor. And it's taken her four months to make it out to the communications relay.

But now I see her settle herself down, feeling a small shock at the sight of her. I still can't get over how breathtakingly beautiful she is, even here, through the haze of static and the unflattering camera angles.

We exchange awkward pleasantries. It takes her a little while to get the hang of the time-lag as the satellite relays the laser signal.

"Lucy," I hardly know where to begin. "Lucy I've wanted so much to see you. I've been such an idiot."

"Are you expecting an argument?"

"Are you okay? I've been so worried." I collect myself.

She smiles, and makes everything right again in that single moment. "We're fine, Jeff."

And - because I know it will please her -"What am I thinking of? I haven't even asked about the baby. How's he doing?"

She reaches down out of sight of the camera for a moment. Then I realize she's brought him along.

I return to cold reality with a jolt. I'd had no information to work with; just my mind's eye, and in it he'd looked exactly like her, with her amazing combination of peach-blonde hair and dancing amber eyes.

But he's nothing like her. Blue-eyed, pale complexion, darker-haired than either of us, a throw-back to Lucy's father, perhaps.

Seeing the child leaves me cold and still a little frightened of my responsibilities.

"So this is Michael." I manage to keep my tone light, hoping she won't hear the apprehension.

She looks at me, sideways smile, that way she has

"Funny thing happened there, Jeff."

"Yeah?"

"Michael stuck for a few weeks. But the truth is, it all got kind of confusing for Mom. She's got a lot worse recently. Sometimes she thought I was talking about Dad." At our first meeting I'd found Lucy's mother reserved and oddly vague; only later did I discover she was suffering from viral induced dementia.

"I'm sorry. About your mother, I mean."

"We're coping. In any case…" she continues, hoisting him up so I can see him properly, "…the more I looked at him, the less like a Michael he looks. Don't you think?"

"So?" I asked, cautiously.

"Well, I remembered our first date. You were talking about having lots of kids and naming them all after the early astronauts and all?"

I remember. And having – and naming - kids seemed like an idea for the future. The far distant future.

"So after a while I started naming him for one of the Mercury Seven, instead, just liked you planned."

I'm oddly taken with this notion. It gives me my first feeling of connection, of having something to do with this child.

"Which one?"

"Well, I did my homework. I have to say he gave me one helluva time at the hospital. I was in labor for ever." She looks round at him and runs a finger down his nose. "Wasn't I, you monster?" She turns back to me. "He really couldn't seem to figure his way into the world. Two weeks late, and even then, he presented butt first. So…"

She looks straight at the camera, a flash of amusement in her eyes. I suddenly catch her meaning. A fine pilot, sure, and a great man, but not known for his navigation skills.

"Scott Carpenter!" we chorus ///

…

I admit I had misgivings about putting Scott on the team. He and I have a whole cargo-hold full of personal baggage. But the murmurings from the higher echelons of the Air Force were that he was good, among the best. When I read the personnel file Johnny bootlegged for me it felt like I was reading the biography of a complete stranger. But he was never what I expected, right from the word go.

I don't know what I'd expected from him here. I thought he'd be competent, but rigid, that he'd play it all straight by the book. But I couldn't have been more wrong. Virgil's the one who keeps the boat steady. Scott is a lateral thinker, the strategic genius; he has genuine vision. When I send him out on a rescue I'd say about two times out of three he does pretty much what you'd expect. The rest of the time he's completely off the wall. His solutions are novel, and sometimes dangerous – he drives Hiram nuts - but they save lives. So far he's always managed to pull it off. But he must be using up lives faster than a cat.

I walk into him – almost literally - in the hallway as we round opposite corners. He has the usual air of express train about him. Why the hell he has to rush everywhere at the speed he does is anybody's guess. He holds up his hands defensively, rolls backwards.

"Scott – good, I need to see you, son. In my office, now if you will."

"Can it wait, sir? The stabilizers on Three felt just a little off last night when we brought her down and I was going to check them out this morning."

"She isn't going anywhere in the next ten minutes," I growl at him. Damn it, he always does this to me. If it's business, he's all attention. But he seems to have a gut instinct when it's a personal matter and just avoids me until I give up trying to corner him. He isn't going to get away with it today. "My office. Now."

He looks at his watch impatiently, just to let me know he's too busy for this, but accompanies me, albeit reluctantly.

I try to engage him in small talk as we go. Anything is better than the unnatural silence that so often builds up between us. "I had a call from Alan this morning," I note conversationally. "Apparently he's got a backer for the Cahill League. You know anything about that?"

He stops, looking a little confused. "Know…?"

Obviously he hasn't picked up on it. I smirk a little inwardly. He's losing his touch - he must be annoyed that he hasn't kept his ear closer to the ground. "I just wondered if you'd heard anything," I continue. "You take quite an interest in racing, don't you? I can't say I'm happy. I had this idea it was dangerous. And he's barely on track with his studies as it is." Now there's the understatement.

"Gordon's the guy to ask," he murmurs as we enter the office. "He follows Alan's career more closely than I do."

Hm. I'd hardly call it a career.

I gesture to a seat but he ignores me. I give up and perch on the side of my desk so I can look him square in the eye. I'm not letting him have the upper hand here.

He picks a spot slightly to my left and towards the floor to focus on. So much for looking him in the eye.

Okay – deep breath, and here goes. With Scott you start with the familiar, then if you get an opportunity you ease gradually into the other stuff. The familiar can be bad enough.

"I need to talk to you about your grandmother."

He gives a single nod, his face a blank mask, and shoves his hands deep into his pockets. I was right - it's going to be one of those conversations. I take a deep breath.

"I think maybe it's time to bring her over here, Scott. Elsie Marchant died last month and the Pickfords hardly ever get over to see her these days. I don't think old Martin can see to drive. Mom's getting lonely. She's still as sharp as a butcher's knife and she needs to feel that she's part of something. She could still make a genuine contribution."

He's good. His new-found fascination for the weave of my carpet doesn't waver for an instant.

"Yes, sir."

I stare at him until he eventually, reluctantly, meets my eye. I'm determined to get some kind of a reaction out of him.

"Are you going to be okay with it?"

He hesitates a moment too long. "Yes, sir."

I still can't read him. But I suspect the old tensions aren't far beneath the surface.

"I don't want to mess up here, Scott. I know you don't like changes."

"What do you want from me, sir?"

Good question. What do I want?

I want a son, not a junior officer.

I want him to stop calling me "sir" just once in a while.

I want to turn the clock back thirty years, and do things differently.

And just once in a while I want to hold the nine year old in him and tell him everything's going to be okay. Too damn late for that. A long time later – too late - someone told me that nine is the very worst age to lose your mother and Scott, well, he was a month short of his ninth birthday. Eight going on forty-eight. He always seemed so…self-possessed - and I had other worries.

I want….more than he will give me.

"A little honesty wouldn't go amiss."

He looks at me sharply now. "Whatever plans you have for expansion are your business. I'll do my job."

I struggle to keep my temper. "I hear you may have a few plans for expansion of your own."

"What do you mean?" His eyes narrow.

"This doctor friend of yours…" Hell, I should have checked her name. Steph? Stevie, that's it. "Stevie. Maybe we can use her on the team?"

This gets his attention, but not in the way I intended.

"Are you kidding me?" He seems incredulous. Or angry. Or both.

I gather it's getting pretty serious. Maybe he doesn't want to put the young woman in the line of fire. I can understand that. But she would be a useful addition to the team, and it's my way in to the next bit of it. And if he really can't cope with the worry of having her out on rescues we could at least accommodate anything else he has in mind.

"Scott, I understand that sooner or later one of you is going to want a family of your own. And I guess it would be nice to have kids around the place again." He loves children, and he'd be damn sight better at the whole thing than I was at his age, I'll grant him that.

He contemplates the floor again now, biting his lip. He looks furious; I know he considers his personal life none of my business, but I'm stunned by this over-reaction.

"Scott?"

Maybe I've read him all wrong. Obviously he isn't that serious about her. Damn it – I'd been trying to lighten things up, not antagonize him. "You must have thought about it, surely, son?"

His head snaps up suddenly, his eyes flashing. "If you think any of us is going to provide you with grandchildren any time soon, you can think again."

What the hell is that about?

I've clearly hit one of those sore points that I'm supposed to know about by some act of telepathy. All parents know the score. I should be grateful. I hear girls are worse.

I quash my reaction to this and make one last-ditched attempt to diffuse the unexpected turn this conversation has taken with humor. "The way Johnny's going, I'm surprised I don't have any already."

"Yeah? Well maybe some of us are a whole lot more careful than you were."

That is straight below the belt and catches me so far off-guard that the motor command actually shoots down my arm and balls my hand into a fist before I inhibit it.

He spots it and flinches, just a fraction.

I hate it that he does that.

The stupid thing is that he could floor me in an instant if he wanted to. I know damn well he could put down someone twice his size. But he wouldn't. He'd let me strike him and wouldn't put out a hand to stop me. Honor thy father and mother, eh Scott?

But I realize I've been less than tactful. I know exactly what he's referring to.

My mind flashes back to the first time he needed his documents. He'd have been about sixteen. I'd dug them out for him, unthinking; stupid as always. His reaction was one of pure horror.

It just hadn't occurred to me he didn't know Lucy and I weren't married when he was born.

I tried to placate him then, tell him it was no big deal, but he'd given me a look of utter contempt and fled the room. It was a big deal to him, apparently.

He's bright enough. I don't think it took long for him to work some other things out. He's always sensed my ambivalence, I know. I was too young when he was born. I didn't do well by him, that's for sure. The idea of spending three years in space held no terrors for me. The idea of imminent fatherhood did. I'd taken up the NASA posting, convincing myself that I was doing the right thing. Married? Hell, we were scarcely a couple, separated as we were by fifty million miles of cold, empty space, and a disagreement that felt at least that big.

My own image didn't take a lot of tarnishing. But I'd trodden on the memories of his mother, and that was something he couldn't forgive.

It turned into one of our bigger rows. Mea culpa, yet again, I guess. But it was a long time ago.

Get over it, for pity's sake.

Maybe he hears me. He looks down and his shoulders slacken again. "I'm sorry, sir. That was uncalled for."

"Yes, it was," I rejoinder coldly and sit down at my desk to let him know the interview is over.

He slinks off quietly.

So much for the familiar. I can't cope with breaking the rest to him. It's the coward's way out, I know, but I'm going to have to get Virgil to do it.

I put my head down, try to get on with my work. But the encounter has irritated me and I find I can't concentrate.

Why the hell do I let him do this to me?

…