Unamused

John scrubbed his hands over his unshaven face, and listened intently to the recording. Scott lifted his coffee cup to his lips, taking a sip of the lukewarm beverage, leaning back in his chair. Virgil lay on the sofa, hands behind his head, eyes closed. Every time his next oldest brother picked up a paper ball to lob at him, he would murmur, "I'm awake, and I'm listening, so quit rustling around." They'd all had breakfast, and this was the final part of their debriefing.

In Thunderbird Five, Gordon listened, too. The recording was a translation of the one John had made, done from Abkhaz into Russian by someone Luba Mzhavia trusted. It had been broadcast on Sukhumi's most powerful radio station, with a header, "To International Rescue, with thanks." Gordon had no idea how long it had been broadcasting, but Thunderbird Five's computers caught it around nine that morning. It was now ten, and the boys were listening to it as it was transmitted through the Russian language filter and translated into English. In his head, John kept making corrections.

The translation stopped, and the boys relaxed a little. Scott finished off his coffee, and set the cup down on his father's desk. "That general must have thought we were idiots," he commented with a snort.

"Maybe not idiots, but he was counting on us not understanding him," John said, shaking his head.

"Or even suspecting him," Virgil added. He pushed himself into a sitting position. "Never knew you were such a suspicious type, John."

"I've gotten that way working in Five," John admitted. "Have to decide quickly if a call is genuine or not. You'd be surprised at how many crank calls I get."

"Ahem." John looked over at the computer screen. Gordon was scowling back at him, arms folded. "Are we done now?" he asked. "I'd like to get some sleep if possible."

"Scott?" John turned to his older brother, an inquiring tone in his voice.

Scott stood up and stretched. "You were field commander on this one, John. You're in charge."

"Ah, right," John said. He took a deep breath and let it out. "Well then, I declare this debriefing..." He was interrupted by the vidphone ringing. "Hey! It's Dad!"

"Dad?!" Virgil hopped up from the sofa and joined John and Scott behind Jeff's desk. "Where's he calling from?"

"New York," Scott said as he pressed the buttons to answer the call.

"New York?" Virgil asked, frowning. "What's he doing there?"

"Can you patch me in?" Gordon asked.

"Sure," John said, his fingers flying over the keyboard as Jeff's face came into view on the screen. Gordon's picture was relegated to a much smaller box in the upper right hand corner. "Hey, Dad!"

"Hey there, John, Scott, Virgil," Jeff said amiably. "Can you call Gordon and patch him in? I want to talk to all of you at once."

"I'm here, Dad," Gordon's voice came over the speaker as Jeff plugged his phone into Alan's laptop.

"Ah, good." Jeff sat down in front of the computer, letting the built-in webcam and microphone serve as his vidphone. On the monitor, he could see a split image: the three oldest boys on half the screen, their images distorted, tall and thin, and Gordon on the other half, looking more normal, but still a bit stretched out. He relegated Gordon's picture to a smaller frame, and the view of his older sons took up the rest of the screen, both pictures losing their distortion. Satisfied, he sat back, a stylus in hand. "I heard on the news that you'd gone out on a call."

The three in the office glanced at each other. John raised an eyebrow in question. Virgil shrugged slightly, and Scott put his hand out, palm up, fingers together and aimed at John. John sighed, and said, "Yeah, Dad. We were. Cavers in Georgia... or Abkhazia, whichever floats your boat."

"How'd it go?"

"Well, we had a bit of a hold up at first," John said, a wry tone to his voice. He proceeded to tell his father, as succinctly as possible, what happened. "We just finished debriefing; the de facto prime minister had the recording I'd made translated into Russian for us and we sent it through the filter. I'll have a better translation for you by the time you get home."

Jeff nodded. "Thanks, John. How are the victims? Last I heard, they were still in surgery."

"That's all we've heard, too, Dad," Gordon piped up. "I'll keep listening for any updates."

"Good man," Jeff replied.

There was a lull in the conversation, then Scott asked, "What are you doing in New York, Dad?"

"And where's Alan?" asked Gordon.

"Well, Scott, I'm in New York to take Alan to a plastic surgeon," Jeff drawled. "As for Alan, he's right here."

The old three sons looked at each other with consternation. "Plastic surgeon?" Scott asked. "It's that bad?"

Jeff blinked, then huffed out a surprised breath. "That's right. None of you have seen him yet, have you?" He glanced over at Alan, who was lightly biting his lower lip. "Alan? Your brothers want to see you."

"Dad..." Alan began, trying to protest.

But his father would have none of it. "It's okay, Alan," he said. "Let them see." He vacated his seat, and motioned for Alan to take it. The boy sighed, and obeyed.

He assayed a smile, and raised a hand in greeting. "Hi, guys."

There was a long silence on the other end. Alan caught a glimpse of his brothers' faces before dropping his gaze downward. Gordon's eyes had gone wide, then his face quickly fell into an angry scowl. Virgil's mouth rounded as his eyebrows rose, and he gave out a low whistle. John subtly sat straighter, his face becoming an impassive mask; only the slight downward turn of his lips signaled his displeasure. Scott clenched his jaw tightly, and knitted his brows into a fierce glower, giving him a determined and livid expression.

"It doesn't feel as bad as it looks," Alan hastened to explain. "And it really looks better than it did the other day... the swelling has gone down a lot."

John forced himself to relax, and give his brother a slight smile. "I'm sure it does, Alan. Still, I'd like to beat the living daylights out of the guys who did this to you."

"I hope you gave as good as you got, Sprout," Scott said, unclenching his jaw and trying to sound jocular.

"I tried, Scott," Alan replied, raising his gaze to the screen. "I remembered some of what you've been teaching me. It helped a lot. Still, it was pretty much three against one."

Scott nodded, his lips twisting in a rueful expression. "We'll work on that, Sprout. We'll work on that."

Virgil leaned forward a bit, a concerned frown on his face. "Why the plastic surgeon?"

Alan gestured toward the gauze that still swathed his cheek. "The doctors were concerned about scarring here. It... it... they..." He took in a deep breath, let it out noisily, then continued in a softer voice. "They bashed my face against a tree a few times."

Virgil nodded slowly, his face going hard, his eyes now angry. The oldest two Tracy sons shared a glance before turning their attention back to the youngest, who looked down again at their scrutiny.

Gordon broke the increasing silence. "Did Pierce do this to you?" he blurted out. Alan looked up at the question. He could see the gaze of his older brothers flick to one side, probably to the view they were getting of Gordon. His scowl had deepened, and his voice had dropped to a low growl.

"Uh, not really, Gords; he didn't get much of a chance." Alan smiled sheepishly. "I kinda took him out early." He touched the back of his head. "Skullbashed him when he had me from behind. I think I broke his nose."

Gordon relaxed a little, and gave a quiet snort. "Always knew you had a hard head... and a thick skull."

The mild quip broke the tension somewhat, and John said, "We've heard the transmission, so we know some of what happened. But you'll have to give us a better play-by-play when you get home."

Alan turned toward his father, who came to crouch beside the chair, in range of the camera. "I think he'll have to write up an email, or call some other time for that, boys," Jeff told them. "I thought a lot about what you said, about the advice others gave. Alan's staying at Wharton."

"You're letting him stay?" John asked, surprise coloring his tone.

Jeff nodded. "It's what he wants." He put an arm around Alan's shoulders. "And he's promised to be careful."

"He'd better be," Scott said, a grin beginning to steal across his face, "or I'll come out and drag his sorry ass home myself."

"You'll have help," John promised.

"Ditto," Virgil said, smirking.

"Me, too," Gordon added.

"I guess that makes it unanimous, Alan," Jeff said mildly.

"Okay, okay!" Alan put his hands up in a gesture of defeat. "I'll be really careful. Sheesh!"

"So, now that we know what you look like – and I can't say it's an improvement – what about track?" John sat back, folding his arms. "Will you have to drop out?"

The younger boy shook his head. "No, but I'm benched for at least three weeks and have to get a doctor's clearance before I can resume practices. Coach says I can help out with the equipment, though, so it's not like I'm totally out of the loop."

"Coach Evans is good with that kind of thing." Gordon stifled a yawn behind a hand. "He'll work with you to keep you on the team."

"Speaking of Coach and staying on the team and all..." Alan stabbed a finger at his brother's picture. "I want to talk to you about your swimming career at Wharton. Dad's been telling me a few things I didn't know before."

"Ah, oh." Gordon rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah. We can talk, but not now. I need to get back to work."

"More like get some sleep," John said. He fixed his eyes on his father's image. "We've been up half the night, Dad, and all morning now. We're whipped."

"Then off to bed with you, boys. I'll call again later. Scott?"

The eldest Tracy son finished his yawn and blinked a couple of times. "Yeah, Dad?"

"I'll be sending my revised flight plan to you soon. Brains and I will stay to watch Fermat compete on Friday and will likely leave sometime Saturday. Tell Kyrano and Onaha that Tin-Tin will be flying home with us. Lady Penelope is bringing her to Wharton."

"Tin-Tin's coming home?" Virgil asked, a puzzled expression on his face.

"Yes, she is. We'll discuss that later," Jeff assured him. "For now, goodnight, boys."

"G'night, Dad." "Talk to you later, Dad." "Goodnight, Alan. Take care." "See you guys later."

Alan added to the chorus. "G'night, guys, and thanks."

"Later, Sprout." Scott's comment was the last heard before the call was ended.

Alan sat back with a sigh. Jeff stood, his hand still on his son's shoulder. "Are you all right, Alan?"

The boy shrugged. "I guess so. I really didn't want them to see me like this." He turned so he could see his father without wincing. "I didn't want them to worry."

"They were going to worry no matter what, son. They're your brothers and they care." Jeff squeezed Alan's shoulder gently. "By seeing you, they'll only worry as much as they need to, if that makes any sense."

"They won't blow things out of proportion?"

Jeff smiled. "Something like that." He took his hand away and stepped back. "Now, I know it's early, but you should get some sleep. You didn't get much at the hospital or last night either." He picked up the medicine bottle. "Did you take these?"

"Uh, no, Dad. I got wrapped up in looking for more news on the rescue, then the call..."

"Take them. Now." Jeff handed the bottle over to his son. "Then get to bed."

"Sir, yes sir!" Alan took the bottle and gave his father a sloppy salute... with the hand that held the bottle. The pills rattled around inside.

"Go on with you." Flapping a dismissive hand, Jeff turned from Alan and started unplugging his phone from the laptop.

"Hey, Dad?" The teen was peering around a wall, obviously caught by a last minute thought.

"Yes, son?"

"Do you think we could do some shopping tomorrow before the appointment? These past couple of weeks have been hard on my clothes."

Jeff considered the idea for a moment. "I guess so. Wouldn't hurt for me to pick up a few new things myself."

Alan smiled as wide as his face would permit. "Great! Thanks, Dad!"

He ducked back, but reappeared when his father called, "Alan!"

"Yeah?"

Jeff pointed an emphatic finger at his son. "Don't expect to shop for shoes. I think you bought more than enough last time you went."

"Ah... okay." Alan disappeared again, and Jeff chuckled, shaking his head in amusement.

"Y'know, John, it's a damned good thing I'm up here."

"Why's that, Gords?"

"Because if I was at home, I'd already be on my way to go beat the crap out of Pierce." Gordon's bad mood had reappeared. "I mean, this guy used to be my friend. We were almost roommates. Then he goes and lets this happen to my little brother." He snorted, a sound of disgust, then began to pace before the screen. "He might not have landed a punch, but what he did... he could have stopped it."

Inwardly, John sighed. He was bone-tired, and he knew Gordon was, too, or else his younger brother wouldn't be talking the way he was. Still, he knew it'd be best if he stayed and listened. Gordon's need for sleep will win out over his anger; I just have to give it time. He leaned back in his father's chair and picked up a stylus, tapping it on his chin unconsciously. "I know you were tight with him while you were at Wharton. Were you still in touch with this guy? Were you still friends?"

The question made Gordon stop, and he looked away, uncomfortable. "No... I didn't stay in touch. We saw each other a couple of times after he was kicked out, but that was about it." He shook his head. "And when I looked back on it later, it always seemed he was subtly making fun of me because I worked so hard at my swimming. He said it'd be so much easier if I just... did what he did and took the steroids." Gordon's face twisted into a perplexed frown. "I couldn't do it. I just couldn't do it. I don't understand why." He clenched a fist, then actually looked at the screen and opened his hand. "It was so tempting, looked so easy. But I couldn't."

John raised an eyebrow and nodded as he considered his brother's statement. "It might have been the easy way, Gords," he intoned, his voice deadpan and serious, "but it wouldn't have been... the cowboy way."

Gordon blinked a few times, looking stupefied, then he burst into peals of laughter. John chuckled, pleased at the effect his little family joke had on his morose brother. Gordon doubled over, one hand on the monitor chair, his eyes tearing up at the force of his merriment. Eventually, he brought his laughing down to the occasional chortle, wiping his eyes as he collapsed in the chair.

"Man, that felt good," he said, still chuckling. "Now I'll have to drag out all Dad's Riders In The Sky recordings when I get home."

"No need. I think I have most of them in Five's data banks." John shrugged. "Gotta listen to something when I'm off-duty."

"Speaking of which, I should be off-duty and getting some sleep, shouldn't I?"

"Yeah. And I'd like to do the same, if you don't mind."

Gordon grinned. "Okay. Point taken. Thanks, John. I needed that. Ever since I heard about Alan..."

"I know." John drew invisible circles on the desk top with the stylus. "I've been worried, too. I shoved it to the back of my mind during the rescue, but it all came back when we got home. Still, as bad as he looked, I was glad to see he was in one piece."

"Me, too," Gordon agreed.

"And for the record, I think part of the reason you couldn't take the steroids was the fact that Dad – and Mom, when she was alive – always preached having a healthy body. Steroids aren't exactly healthy... at least, not the way that Pierce was using them. They have their proper place - in medicine."

"You're probably right." Gordon yawned, stretching. "I'm hitting the hay, John. Goodnight, or should I say, good afternoon?"

John echoed his brother's yawn, not bothering to cover his mouth. "'Sleep well' fits the bill. Later, Gords."

"Later, John."

The light that Dr. Phillips shone on Alan's face felt hot and he closed his eyes against the brightness. The doctor gently probed and prodded, making his patient wince and draw in a hissing breath.

"I'm sorry, Alan," the surgeon said. "But that's good news, really. The nerves are still working."

"Mm-hmm," Alan replied, not sure if he could actually speak during the examination.

"Looks like the hospital did an excellent job of cleaning the lacerations." Dr. Phillips looked through the strong magnifier in the center of the circular light. "No detritus that I can see." He held a gloved hand to his nurse. "Gauze, please."

Alan could feel the doctor patting his cheekbone gently. "Just a little bleeding there, Alan. Nothing to worry about."

As the examination progressed, Alan could hear his father shifting position in the chair across the room. He could hear the doctor's breathing, noisy through the mouth cover's accordion folds. The nurse was a hovering presence in the background, barely discernible.

At last, the light was turned off and withdrawn. "Denise, let's get some pictures of this," Dr. Phillips said as he rolled his stool back.

"Pictures?" Alan asked, blinking against the change in lighting.

"Yes, Alan. We'll need them as records so we can see the progress that's been made and the way the scar pattern develops." The doctor pulled off the paper mask, and removed his gloves, washing his hands thoroughly. As he did, he addressed his comments to both patient and patient's father. "I can't do anything right now; it's far too early. Your face has to heal and scar tissue needs to develop before we can decide on a way to treat the scars." He turned away from the sink, leaning up against the counter and folding his arms. "Depending on how the abrasions and lacerations heal, you may not even need surgery. The scars may be small enough and few enough that you decide to live with them. But if they're not, I would probably recommend dermabrasion or laser resurfacing. And, truthfully, it would be better to wait until you're out of school to perform the procedures. That way you won't miss any class time."

"So, I wouldn't be having surgery for a while?" Alan asked. "Possibly not until the school year's over?"

Dr. Phillips nodded. "Unless you wanted to do it over Christmas." He smiled. "Personally, I'd rather not spend my holidays with my face all bandaged up."

"If he did have the procedures during the school year, how long would he be out?" Jeff asked.

"He could resume normal activities within a week, two at the outside. Healing takes longer than that, and he'd have to avoid unnecessary sunlight for three to six months."

"Hmph." Jeff said as he and Alan exchanged glances. "A bit difficult where we live, but we could manage." He straightened. "I think we'll wait on it then; see how things look in the spring."

"That's a good choice," Dr. Phillips said, nodding. "The wounds should be fully healed by then."

"Doctor?" Alan's voice was hesitant. "Since I'm not having surgery, when do you think I could, uh, run track again?"

The doctor chuckled. "I'll give you a letter, if you like, that says you can return to sports in three weeks. But I'm sure you'll need a note from your local physician as well."

Alan nodded. "Okay. Thanks."

The doctor dropped his arms and patted Alan on the shoulder. "Let Denise get some pictures of the damage; it won't take long to know if we've got good shots. Then she'll bandage you up again, give you some wound care instructions, and you can go." He held out his hand, first to Alan, then to Jeff. "It's been a pleasure meeting you both."

"Same here, Doctor. Thanks for fitting us into your schedule," Jeff said as he shook hands.

Dr. Phillips smiled. "Happy to oblige." He turned to the nurse, who had come in with a digital camera. "Denise, he's all yours."

Denise smiled at her patient. "Okay, Alan, just turn your head a little bit to the right..."

"What time is it, Dad?"

Jeff sighed. "It's two thirty. Don't worry, we'll get there in plenty of time. The meet doesn't start until five."

Alan, impatient, bounced up and down a little on the balls of his feet. He slung his overnight case over one shoulder, and took the handled shopping bag that his father gave him. Jeff took his garment bag out of the plane's hold, and added his own overnight bag to the laptop he was already carrying.

"Why don't we ask for a skycap or something?" Alan asked. "This stuff is awkward."

"Alan, as tempting as it is to always hire someone to do things for us, sometimes it's faster if we do them for ourselves." Jeff was beginning to sound exasperated. "It's not far to the main terminal, and Brains will be there to help us load the car." He glanced over his shoulder. "You do have the new vidcam, don't you?"

"Yes, Dad. It's in the shopping bag." Alan let out an exaggerated sigh. He adjusted the overnight case on his shoulder, keeping a hand on the strap and his elbow tucked in. His midsection didn't hurt anywhere near as much as it had, but he did want to spare it any bumping from the suitcase.

He glanced back, waiting for his father to finish buttoning up their plane. Once Jeff had closed the hatch and joined him, the two walked out of the hangar together... only to be confronted with a long, pink car.

"If I may, Master Alan?" Parker, standing straight and tall beside the open door to FAB-1, stepped forward, offering to take Alan's bags.

"Parker!" Alan's eyes widened with delight, and he smiled, a wider smile than he'd had for days. "Good to see you, man!" He pushed the bags in the chauffeur's direction. "They're all yours!"

Parker took Alan's offering, then stepped close to Jeff so he could speak quietly. "Beg pardon, Mr. Tracy, but Milady thought I should take Master Alan's bags first, seeing as 'e's 'urt an' all."

Jeff nodded and sighed. "I understand, Parker. Carry on."

By this time, Penelope and Tin-Tin had stepped from the car. Alan smiled bashfully and raised a hand in greeting, "Hey, Lady Penelope! You're looking... fab!"

"Why thank you, Alan," Penny replied, smiling graciously. "You are looking much better than you did when last I saw you." She turned her eyes toward Jeff, who still had his hands full. "Jeff, how wonderful to see you again!" Stepping over, she gave him a kiss on the cheek, one hand cupping the side of his face.

Tin-Tin took the opportunity to approach Alan. "Hey, Alan. It's good to see you," she said, sounding a bit shy. A slight blush spread across her cheeks, and she linked her fingers together, letting her hands rest against her stylish skirt.

"Good to see you, too, Tin-Tin." He stood awkwardly, glancing at her quickly, then turning his attention back to his father and Penelope.

Jeff grinned as he set down the laptop. "Good to see you, too, Penny." He returned the kiss, sliding an arm around her waist. Then he raised his eyes to the car. "Hello, Tin-Tin! How are you?"

"Hi, Mr. Tracy! I'm fine!" The young woman rocked back and forth on her heels a little as she turned back to Alan. "You really do look better, Alan. The swelling's gone down. Does it hurt?"

Alan watched for a moment as Parker offered to take Jeff's bags, and saw his father and Penny drop into quiet, intimate conversation. He tore his eyes away, and looked back at Tin-Tin. "I'm sorry. What did you say?"

"I asked if it hurt... your face, does it hurt?" Tin-Tin's expression was still solicitous, but there was a touch of disappointment in her voice.

Alan was oblivious. "Uh, no, not much anymore. Just when I try to open my mouth too wide, like when I yawn. And it's still a bit sore to the touch."

By this time, Jeff and Penny had joined the young people. "As I was telling your father, Parker, Tin-Tin and I arrived only an hour ago," Penelope explained. "I called Brains en route to discover when you were due to land and decided we would wait for you."

"Cool!" Alan rubbed his hands together. "Now I know we'll get to Wharton in time. Parker's driving!"

"I beg yer pardon, Master Alan," Parker said, sounding affronted. He offered his hand to Tin-Tin, assisting her as she stepped back into FAB-1. "I adhere to all the traffic laws... except in emergency situations."

"And, as eager as I am to see our Fermat compete, this is not one of those situations," Penelope said firmly, more to Alan than to Parker. She gracefully took her place inside her car, and Jeff followed, sitting next to her.

Alan found his seat, and glanced over at Tin-Tin. It seemed odd to see her wearing a skirt and blouse, and he thought that her blazer might be too light for the cool weather they'd been having. She had crossed her legs at the ankle and tucked them partially under her seat, and he struggled to think what was different about them. I've seen her legs plenty of times on the island; she always wears shorts. Wait – I think I know. She's wearing heels. Yeah. That's what's wrong. She never wears heels back home.

Parker pulled away from the hangar smoothly, and they headed west, towards the slowly descending sun.

"Hey, guys!" Robbie peered out from behind the rear curtain, trying hard not to disturb it. "Look at the crowd!"

"I thought quiz team didn't get a lot of spectators," murmured Aaron Blanding, a sophomore, and one of their new players.

Devdan peered out over the freshman's head and his eyes widened. "We do not. Usually only a few of our instructors will attend. There are quite a few more than usual this evening." He turned his head to one side and smiled at Fermat. "And it seems that our young Mr. Hackenbacker has a cheering section."

"I recognize that woman in pink," Aaron said, grinning. "She's the one who picked Fermat and Alan up for spring break last year. Wow, who's that babe sitting with her? I'd like her phone number!"

Fermat glared at Aaron, then headed away from the curtain.

The first round went well. Fermat quizzed out quickly, answering his two challenges with ease. The first time he did so, there was wild applause and even shouting and whistling from a section of the audience. After that first incident, he noticed Mr. Tracy talking to Alan, then Alan spreading the word to the others that were there: Kay, Zave, Jason, A.J., and Dom. After that, there was less shouting, no whistling, but louder applause. And not just for him, but for the Wharton quiz team in general. He had known that Lady Penelope and Tin-Tin were in the audience, and Parker's attendance only engendered a quick, "Of course!" in his mind. But he was surprised to see Mr. Trumbull in the crowd, sitting with A.J. His own father sat with Mr. Tracy, and grinned from ear to ear when Fermat answered his challenges. Mr. Tracy himself had a vidcam with him and was recording the event. Oh no! Wonder if it's streaming live to the rest of the guys.

But the other team was very good, and by the time the first round ended, the score was close, with Wharton holding a mere two point lead. The upperclassmen retired to the seats behind the staging area, and the underclassmen took their places. The jump seats had been placed in front of the long tables this time, and tested before the contest began. Even so, they were tested again, with each player standing up when told to. Finally, Mr. Feng was satisfied, and he gave his place to the other team's coach. The two were alternating as officials to keep things as free from favoritism as possible.

Fermat felt a knot of worry growing in his stomach. It was one thing to quiz at some obscure school before a handful of strangers, but this was different. This was his school, those were his teachers, his friends out there cheering him on, and that was his dad who was looking on with obvious pride. Instead of feeling uplifted by a sense of support, he felt burdened down by the weight of expectations. The knot twisted tighter as the second round began.