Well, stories exist to be written, despite my grumpy mathematical preferences. :/ Besides, I can always squeeze in one more chapter, and end with the triumphantly odd (but thuddingly composite) number 39. Thank you, Bow Echo, Creative Girl, Tikatu, Thunderbird Shadow Whirl Girl and Susan (for all of those Lockdown comments). Your reviews and encouragement are a true joy. Often as I've previously said so, I really mean that. =)

38

Mars, in the hectic days following the banishment of Apophis-

The Prototype was large and capacious; a good thing, as they ended up rescuing over a hundred and fifty people from that shuddering, fast-changing planet. Some wouldn't leave, choosing to brave the dangers of quake, mudflow and eruption, rather than abandon their homes. Among these were Admiral McCord and his command crew, who would only accede to waiting on Deimos Station for the worst to die down, before heading right back to their shattered post.

None of the colonists returned to Earth. For them, home was Mars, dammit. (An inside joke; no true Martian ever said simply 'Mars'. It was always: Mars, dammit. Even Pete and his officers, in their unguarded moments, spoke that way.) They went only as far as Asteroid-1, where Captain Paul Metcalfe made as much room as he could in his crowded and busy law-enforcement outpost.

Of Havok and Fuse, they found no trace. The Chaos Cruiser was well and truly gone, though, meaning that its criminal occupants had most likely skipped planet. Better for them, as McCord was still furious.

For his own part, Captain Taylor would not rest until every last distress call had been tracked down and answered, every last ranch family taken to safety. Most left clutching a small handful of muddy red dirt; their quasi-magical spell to guarantee a swift return.

Gordon, Alan, Rigby and Brains worked till they dropped, getting people picked up and saved from one hairy situation after another. Not everyone living on Mars was present legally, you see, and some of them waited until the last possible moment to holler for help. A few would surely have perished, had a time-bender not been there to freeze them in harrowing mid-crisis. By the end of those rushed and risky few days, Charlie had grown quite seasoned. He eventually settled at the size of a five-year-old (though that wasn't his actual age).

For the boy, life was adventure, play, space-food and sleep, beside the star of his life, Gordon Tracy. 'Home' would come as quite a shock, once they got there. He'd heard all about the Island, of course, but nothing could prepare that small, shy child for regular meals, daily baths and bedtime.

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Tracy Island, in the meantime-

Chancellor Shaw had expressed concern for Zara's welfare, asking to see and speak with 'the dear girl', over holo-vid. Very kind, to be sure, but Colonel Tracy kept such contacts extremely short. Plain and simple, Jeff did not trust Sebastian Shaw any further than he could throw him (about fifteen feet, if he really dug in and heaved).

Still and all, the Island was a beautiful place; a riot of gorgeous flowers, trilling birds, steaming jungle, constant winds and high surf. There were gen-mod pterosaurs, too, whose colony roosted amid the caves near the top of Mt. Lucie. Not on the same side as the house, though. Too much activity.

Zara found it all incredibly magical, and her small, cozy 'guest room' entirely charming. You see, far from being sterile, like a hotel, the room was a sort of shrine for all of the boys' outgrown toys, family pictures, old books and mementos.

Enchanted, Zara made a game out of guessing the Tracys' natures, from what she found on the neat, afghan-covered bed, that worn blue-velvet armchair, cushioned window seat and battered wood desk. All three older boys had carved their initials upon the scarred maple escritoire with a penknife, or some such. The trick was finding out where. Evidently, they'd wished to avoid their father's displeasure. Scott's initials… SWT… appeared at the rear of the top right drawer. JMT had been smoothly carved at the back of both front legs, whilst a clumsy, childish-looking VET was scratched underneath the desktop, by someone who'd crouched on the floor, below (and had then gone over his work in vivid blue crayon).

Zara ran a forefinger over all of their marks, and smiled. Odd, really… to think of those three storied heroes as mischievous scoundrels afraid of their Da. Her own was quite loving, if often away. But then, the interplanetary export business was terribly demanding. He saw Mum… his common-law wife… at most, twice a year. But, always, on Zara's birthday. She'd not told him of her internship, simply because they'd not been in touch since the last time 'Edwin Smith' had returned to his home world. All's well that ends well, however; surely, he'd not be upset by her oversight.

Sitting there in the bright, airy guestroom, balcony doors open to a gentle afternoon breeze, Zara tried to imagine what growing up under a superman like Colonel Tracy must have been like. Intimidating, she fancied, trying to visualize Jeff's tall form, booming voice and commanding presence in place of Da's slim, smiling self… his satchel bulging with presents and sweets.

Shaking her golden-blonde head, the girl next focused upon a big, grey plastic plane model. Here, too, 'SWT' had been stamped, in black permanent ink. Funnily enough, in the same position that a pilot would have his name and rank decaled on an actual fighter craft. The indicated rank was General.

"Meant to outrank your Da?" Zara guessed, laughing a bit at the presumption of sons. "Cheeky devil!" Scott was ambitious. Driven. Very much in his father's shadow.

Also adorning the desk's pigeon-holed top was an old leather glove and a ball. Not cricket-standard, at all. American baseball, Zara supposed. 'Tracy, J.' was written inside the glove's wrist-strap, along with the name 'Lacey'. Quite daringly, Zara slipped her own small hand into the pitching glove and slapped that red-laced white ball into its webbed pocket. A framed image showed a very young, pony-tailed John Tracy winding up to pitch before a large crowd. Zara considered a moment, then murmured, "You look rather dashing with long hair… the Colonel must've been away on some extended mission, that year."

On the window seat, near an old telescope, sprawled a threadbare stuffed dog… green with brown patches… who looked to have been dragged by one foot down many a flight of stairs. When squeezed, some recording device inside the toy laughed, said, "Have fun, Teddy", in a woman's soft voice, and then played Fur Elise. One of the dog's paws was embroidered 'VT', and it smelt very slightly of cinnamon. Here was one who cherished his family and loved music, thought Zara, trying to square that image with the big, powerful, public middle Tracy. There'd been a pointy American football between the dog's paws. That fit him better, she thought.

Up on a high shelf, beside an old, well-thumbed storybook, she found a child's guitar with a pair of blue plastic swim goggles wrapped round the neck. There were sporting medals, as well, from scores of successful events. The awards ranged from a plastic 'A+ Swimmer' victory cup, to seven Olympic gold medals, proudly displayed in their cases. Zara held her breath, touching those. Like the baseball pennants adorning all four walls, and Scott's Eagle Scout banner, the medals bespoke excellence.

Next, she found a dozen neatly organized cases of miniature cars done in metal and plastic. Quite old, some of them, they'd been lovingly cared for and oft handed down, Zara suspected. Some of the names inside of the cases… Zac, Bradley, Mattie and Grant… were not familiar. The last one, carefully printed inside every case, was 'Alan'. Perhaps he would grow up to race, as well as fly?

A pink-flowered teddy bear and scattering of Hello Kitty toys, together with dressage and karate awards, whispered of Kayo, the family's sole lass. In that one picture, only, did the Colonel appear, right arm proudly wrapped round his triumphantly smiling young daughter, her bay pony… head lifted, nostrils flaring… just behind them. Her black velvet riding cap was embroidered with a little gold crown, Zara saw.

"Da's little Princess," she murmured, smiling. She knew what that was like. Setting the framed image carefully back where she'd got it, Zara looked all around, seeing love, pride and loyalty shining from each treasured artefact. She felt quite privileged to be there; not just on Tracy Island, but allowed inside of their memory and hearts, as it were.

Colonel Tracy was off to the mainland with one Lieutenant Commander Sheffield and an eager young fellow with dark hair and freckles, escorting the Hood back to prison. Lady Penelope was busy with the many affairs of a working noblewoman, even whilst off on 'vacation'. Kayo had disappeared, being as easy to pin down as an errant breeze. Grandma Tracy was pleasant but (in Zara's mind) unapproachable, being the queen of this island of heroes.

Thus, Zara walked, read that fairy-book, swam at the beach, called home, cooked and froze any number of simple meals, and waited for life to take its next wondrous turn. Nevertheless, she was not any better prepared than young Charlie, for what happened when the boys came home, in two rowdy stages. Nor for what followed after.