At this point, a matter of moving the pieces around on the board, to reach the end of the game, y'know? Thank you for reading and reviewing, Tikatu, Creative Girl, Bow Echo and Whirl Girl. And I have to say "Hi" to Lesotho. =)
46
London, former U.K., at the GDF hospital's VIP guest suite-
Naturally, there was a heated swimming pool. Olympic-sized and empty, it gleamed pure and clean in the slanting late-afternoon glow; half in sparkling sunshine, half in the shade of the tower.
Gordon found his way there, after Lee spelled him at Dad's bedside, the second time. The tag-team approach seemed best, since his father could be one cranky, contentious patient. Also, well… Kayo was busy with that ramrod-stiff Marine of hers, and it felt really awkward to intrude on them.
So, Gordon Tracy did what he always did when stressed or confused. He peeled down to his trunks and hit the water. No, a rooftop swimming pool wasn't the ocean, but swimming brought clarity. Needing to just fricking not think, the young Olympian pushed himself hard; swimming lap after blinding fast lap. Used every stroke he knew: breast, side, back and butterfly, plus free-style.
Soon lost himself in swirling pool water. In alternating bright sunshine and filtered and wavering light. Wind-song, then rushing and bubbling fluid. Flip-turned at the wall so many times, he lost count; breathing smoothly, easily, completely at home. The pool filter's hum was like low, soothing music, and just what he needed.
Scott worked things out by running. John, by just throwing a ball around. Virgil played his piano at times of extreme stress, while Al would always reach for the videogames. Gordon Tracy had to swim, or crack stupid jokes. There was no one around to clown for, so, swim he did; until every muscle ached, and he was ready to vomit pool water.
At last, worn completely the h*ll out, he rolled over to float on his back, letting the water just carry him. Unlike Al, Gordon had some memories of his mother, and one of them was a lot like this; rocking gently, completely at peace. Then, startlingly, Gordon heard someone clapping.
The young athlete spun in the water, face-down, blowing out through his nose, and then upright, supported by kicking legs and slow-sculling arms. Where…?
The pool was encased in a cage, of course, with a few ornate umbrella tables and lounge chairs scattered about. At one of these tables, nursing a frosty alcopop, sat a woman. No, a reporter. Kat Cavanaugh.
Her chromed camera drone perched on the back of her chair like one of Odin's ravens. No doubt, it had caught his entire swim session. Well… not like he'd been rocking a skin-tight floral banana hammock, or anything. Not this time.
Seeing that he'd spotted her, Cavanaugh waved at him, then gestured toward a covered dish and drink, beside her own on the glass-topped table. Food? Absolutely, she had his undivided attention.
Forgetting exhaustion, Gordon stroked for the pool's green-tiled lip, then took hold of the edge and muscled himself up and out of the water. Stood for a moment, shedding rivulets and stripping off his goggles. (Never left home without them.)
Then, grabbing a towel against the early evening chill, Gordon walked over to join Kat Cavanaugh. Figured she wanted a story, but… what the h*ll, huh? He could handle himself with reporters. He'd done it before.
"Hello, Scrumptious," she purred, raking him boldly up and down with her hungry blue eyes. Shouldn't have had the effect that it did, but Gordon was feeling sort of awkward and lonely. In a word: vulnerable.
"Hello, yourself," he responded. Dragging a heavy, wrought-iron chair away from the table, he set the towel down to catch drips, and then took a seat. Indicating the covered food dish, he asked, "That for me?"
Cavanaugh smiled and tilted her head to one side, playing with a strand of her shoulder-length, reddish-brown hair.
"Yes, it is, Hot Stuff. All of it… for the low, low price of a few questions answered. Enquiring minds want to know what their heroes are up to, these days, and I'm here to scratch that itch."
Right. The food turned out to be a roast beef sandwich, potato crisps and chocolate cake. Alongside that, she'd provided a celery crunch bar and root beer. Pretty much what he'd had for lunch every day, since getting to the hospital. Well, why not? For all he knew, she'd put it all on the Colonel's tab.
"Thanks," he said, picking up the sandwich and tucking right in. "What're these enquiring minds after, exactly? Not my swim times… summer Olympics are two years away."
Kat's smile broadened.
"Your athletic performance certainly impressed me, Sweet-roll… makes me wonder what else you can do. But, sticking to business, rumor has it that a certain high-ranking GDF officer and his best mate just took off in a government shuttle. Any idea where they might be headed? And why?"
Gordon frowned. He hadn't heard that, but didn't doubt her. Swallowing a mouthful of sandwich, he washed it down with root beer, then reached over to adjust the enclosure's climate control. Getting too cold.
"If you're talking about my father, he's supposed to still be in bed, recuperating, but… Yeah, it'd be just like him to check out early, without a word. As far as where he went, your guess is as good as mine. Probably better, thanks to your resources." (She had her data pad open in front of her on the table, with an IR screen-saver. The camera drone was on the job, too, shifting its perch to keep him in constant focus.) "All I have is the family grapevine, and that's pretty slow."
The reporter nodded, crossing and uncrossing her legs, so that they rubbed his, under the table.
"Speaking of family," she said, with something like sympathy, "No one's seen your brothers since the Cutwater Destiny rescue, a couple of weeks ago. Records show that doctors were called to the island, by you, just a day and a half later. You said there was some kind of outbreak taking place?"
She looked at him closely, as if trying to gauge how far she could go, by the expression in his wide hazel eyes.
"Are your brothers in trouble, Punkin? The doctors aren't talking, but they haven't left the island yet, either… and now it looks like the Colonel's on his way back. Care to give me the straight stuff, before I'm forced to let my imagination run wild?"
Gordon broke eye contact. Stirring the crisps around on his plate with a forefinger, he shrugged his bare shoulders.
"Sounds like you've already got all you need to answer that question, Ms. Cavanaugh," he told her, feeling suddenly tired. "Not sure I can tell you any more than the director… my grandmother… would." Then, in a sudden hoarse whisper, "Yeah. They're sick, and I'm worried. We all are. If Dad's left, that's where he's gone. I know you'll report whatever you want, Miss Cavanaugh…"
"Call me Kat."
Gordon looked back up at her. She wasn't smiling, anymore. Just very intent. Very focused, on him.
"Kat, then. I know you're gonna report whatever you want to… but we have enemies, so… if International Rescue matters to you, at all… maybe you could find a way to keep the situation on the down-low, a little bit longer? I mean, this would be a God-awful time for the Mechanic to come calling, or the Chaos Crew. 'Cause, y'know… we're fresh out of those little barbecue cocktail weenies and paper umbrellas. Can't have guests without those."
Kat cocked a slim eyebrow at the bravely smiling young man. She was thirty years old, if she was a day, while the hard-muscled Adonis before her was all of twenty-one. He had a tattooed, black '4' on his left pectoral, and Olympic rings inked onto his right bicep. She noticed, too, that he hadn't moved his leg away, when she brushed against him.
"How about an exchange," she offered. "I'll send up a cheerful "getting better, but still rather contagious" smokescreen, and you… You buy me dinner."
Gordon considered.
"I'll have to get dressed," he told her.
Smiling, Kat moved her leg, again.
"I'm partial to room service, myself," she confided, reaching forward to take a crisp from his plate and eat it. "More bang for your buck, so to speak."
Well, she was certainly straightforward, and he was very much tired of being alone. Mooning after Penny and Kayo had gotten him nowhere. For a change, it'd be nice to spend time with someone who actually wanted him.
That's why Gordon stood up, offered the reporter a hand, and said,
"Sounds like a plan, but I'll have to work up an appetite, first. Hope you don't mind."
"Mind?" drawled Kat, once more looking him over. "Sweet-roll, I'm counting on it."
XXXXXXXXXXXXX
Tracy Island, the far future-
Brains shook the light-dazzle out of his eyes, and squeezed Moffy's hand. Trying to take in everything at once, the engineer looked all around. A small crowd of very odd, very tall people was the first thing he noticed. That they were all standing under a dome of some kind, the second.
Just as in Sheffield's pictures, there was a long banqueting table set up, laden with food that appeared entirely unappetizing, even by Tracy Island standards. The gathered people were golden-tan in colour, with yellow hair and huge green eyes. They also seemed terribly relieved… overjoyed, almost… to see him.
"Speaker," one of them whispered, coming shyly forward. "Honored Sheefold is certainly truthing. He is bringing you, to see how your Words are been kept."
Lieutenant Commander Sheffield strode off the lab floor to greet the tall woman, who gave the impression of a loose-jointed stick-insect. Bringing her over to Brains, he said,
"Doctor Hackenbacker, this is Sharl-who-waits. She's, um, done a great job of following the Words. I can vouch for that. Sharl, this is the Speaker, and this is his friend, Professor Moffat. J.R., you already know. The kid over there's Caleb. He works for the Speaker."
Sharl's eyes had got bigger, as though emotion affected her actual form. She looked like an acolyte, meeting her god.
"Speaker," she murmured, "our honoring is having no words for this height. There is here food of your era. We are being learned of pizza, and have replicating it, as is telling us Conyore."
Sheffield flinched. As Sharl went on describing the food, he leaned over to Brains and whispered,
"Maybe skip the pizza, if Conyers had anything to do with it. That kid pisses disaster."
Caleb Gonzalez, meanwhile, had drawn a crowd of his own. Being young, he was the subject of many awed remarks and shy touches. Didn't bug him, a bit. (And still beat lifeguarding at Wavey-World.)
Brains had been half attending to Sharl's discourse on food, half watching his wrist comm's data-feed. When the woman wrapped up her speech, he said,
"Honorable Sh- Sharl, when I, ah… when I c- composed the message for your t- time, it was in hopes that y- you would be prepared for the, ah… the c- coming of Commander Sheffield, and his people. I hoped th- that you would receive him with c- care and friendship. You h- have exceeded all th- that I wished, when I sent those w- words."
The tall, spidery-looking people shifted and murmured. Some of them actually cried. Brains hesitated. It felt very odd to receive this sort of adulation. Unaccustomed. Sharl made a little sign in the air between them, with flicker-fast spindly hands. Her face was shining, almost.
"Speaker, there is no needing left for me, except…" she looked over at Sheffield, as if for help. The Lieutenant Commander nodded, then said,
"Doctor, Sharl and her people would be grateful if you could have a look at their stepping-across room. Major Pope can show you what we've accomplished, so far."
Brains glanced at Vanessa, who gave him a warm and encouraging smile. Filled with sudden assurance, he said,
"V- Very well. Moffy and I sh- shall work with the Major to, ah… to r- repair the teleportation device. L- Lieutenant Commander, I sh- should like you to find the d- dome's comm equipment, and attempt to make contact with others. Th- There are other domes, are there not?"
Sharl nodded, very seriously.
"It is to say yes, Speaker. There are being many domes, beside West."
Brains peered upward through that high, arching glass (?). Saw nothing but swirling grey-whiteness outside. What had happened? Asteroid strike? War? Natural disaster? Whatever, he was here to do what he could… and to find those four cryo-sleep tubes. Because, surely the picture was wrong. Surely, he'd found some way to save his young friends. Looking back over at Sharl, he said,
"I w- will gladly eat, b- but must do so as I, ah… I w- work. Caleb!"
The freckled young aquanaut broke away from his ardent admirers. (Mostly. One trailed along with him, looking almost youthful, for her stilt-walking kind.)
"Right here, Mr. Brain! Whatever you need, I got in spades."
The engineer smiled slightly. It was not worth correcting the young man, who seemed to combine the brashness of Gordon with a monkey-like curiosity and lack of restraint. Instead, he said,
"I h- have need of pictures and interviews, C- Caleb. Once you have unpacked and s- set up my equipment, I expect you to, ah… to m- move among these people and record wh- whatever they may have to s- say. L- Legends, myths and t- tales of the past, especially. Understood?"
"Capture the moldy oldies, gotcha. No problemo, Mr. Brain. Me and Kaise, here, we got this!" In fact, he was already moving, eager to unpack and get started.
For that matter, so was Moffy, who'd gotten her scanner out, and was turning a slow, complete circle. Once she'd finished, the professor looked up from the screen and said,
"Hiram, something is very wrong, here. These people are dying."