Moonstrike! Chapter 7 - Reasons

[tikatu]

Author's note: The “downing of not one but two Fireflash jets” with over 600 people dead, is a reference to the events in Operation Crash-dive, another terrorist plot unexplained in canon that could plausibly be linked to Tellus Prime. And for those who might be keeping track of which episodes I'm referring to, I'm using the first broadcast order, with a couple of tweaks, and spreading them out between 2065 and 2066.

Disclaimers, et al.
Chapter 1: Discovery
Chapter 2: Enemies
Chapter 3: Trust
Chapter 4: Disappearance
Chapter 5: Alarms
Chapter 6: Contrasts

Same day - Tracy Island

"Hey, Virgil! Whatcha watching?" Gordon stopped his laps to speak to his brother, who was lying in the hammock, reading from a tablet.

As a response, Virgil merely showed Gordon his data pad. It showed New York Lifestyles televid show, and their sister sat in the studio's comfortable-looking interview set. She was seated in a wing chair; her up-swept chestnut hair, so close to Virgil's own color, was set off nicely by the cream satin stripes of the upholstery. She wore a tailored maroon business suit with covered buttons and a pair of coordinating pumps. Virgil froze the picture at a close up of her face; she was looking at the lens, smiling slightly, dimples showing, blue eyes seeming to twinkle with mischief. Overall, she exuded confidence, good-humor, and looked every inch the executive.

"Oh, that." Gordon shook his head. "It's a good interview, I guess, but I don't know why she had to say what she did about me."

"Well, you can ask her about it when she gets home," Virgil said.

Same day - Tracy Towers

"You need some rest, Allison." Dr. Emilio Chavez pulled the wireless earpieces from his ears, turning off his stethoscope as he did so. "Your blood pressure is up. Your lactic acid levels are up. Everything I'm seeing screams fatigue. How much have you been sleeping lately?"

"At least eight hours, Milio, you know that. The antidepressants see to it." Rhea buttoned her shirt again. She was dressed in blouse and skirt now; the sliced workout clothes were piled on the floor in her personal washroom. "I'm wiped because of the incident, that's all. Reaction set in and..."

"And why didn't you pull out before that point?" Standing against the door to the examining room was Marilee "Mother Hen" Henderson, IR agent, head of Tracy Towers' security, and the woman responsible for arranging Rhea's personal safety. "Belle tells me you started reacting soon after your assailant was tazered, and Anselmo bears her out."

Rhea rolled her eyes. "And let Animal Control bring Bodie down? Not a chance. I was politely asked to call her off, and I cooperated. I was fine until we were on our way back to the limo. Then I realized I'd been slashed, and the whole thing came crashing down on me."

Henderson raised an silvered eyebrow in challenge, but Rhea met her gaze coolly. "Have the police arrived for my statement?" she asked.

"Yes. They've talked to Belle, Petra, and Anselmo, and are now cooling their heels in your anteroom. They're getting antsy, or so Yvette tells me."

Rhea slid off the table, and slipped back into her heels. "I'll answer their questions, then call it a day." She turned to her physician. "I'll give the island a call, and see if they can send Scott out earlier, give me an extra day or two away. And I promise I'll rest while I'm there."

"You'd better," Emilio said, setting aside his instruments. "I'll require another blood sample and go over from you when you return as proof."

"And you'll get them." The speed of her acquiescence made Dr. Chavez's eyes widen, but he nodded, his lined face creasing into a small smile.

"You'll leave early today?"

Rhea nodded, shrugging into her suit jacket as Marilee handed it to her. "I promise."

"Then get out of here. Send me a postcard."

She shook her head and smiled. "You know our island isn't a tourist trap. No postcards. I'll take some pictures and email them. Make you jealous."

Dr. Chavez snorted a laugh, and Rhea grinned, gave him a sharp salute, and let Marilee herd her out of the room.

"Where's Bodie?" was the first question she asked as they headed toward the elevators.

"Long took her home. Therese got her inside."

Rhea sighed, relieved. "Good. I'll need the vet to email the records to whoever's in charge so she won't be marked as a dangerous dog and be put down, or require a muzzle."

"St. John has already given the officers the vet's number and authorized the record release." Marilee removed her ID card, and slid it into a reader, then put her hand up to a scanner. A light below the scanner turned red, then after a moment green. A tone rang out, and a door opened, revealing an elevator car paneled in a rich, well-marbled teak. "I assume you want to take the public way in?"

"Yes," Rhea said. She had two secure, private elevators: one that took her to the area outside her own anteroom, where her receptionist, Yvette, and her personal secretary, Andrew St. John, had their offices. The other was within her office itself, and hidden. The only ones who knew about it were Rhea, Marilee, and Jeff Tracy himself, as it had been his own private way in and out of the building when he had occupied the same space.

Marilee stepped into the car first; she always went first, her tall, broad shouldered figure looking imposing, even in a business suit tailored for her extra height - and to conceal her weapons. She nodded to Rhea, who entered the car, then she closed the door manually, pressed a button, and it took off at high speed.

During the short ride, Rhea examined herself in the mirror above the control pad. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind an ear; she hadn't had much time to style it in its usual French twist. As a result, she wasn't pleased with the way she looked. Even through her make up, she thought she was far too pale, and remembered with longing the hot sun shining down on her father's island. For once I need this, she thought as the car came to a halt.

Marilee left the car, signaled that things were as they should be, then Rhea followed. The short, dapper figure of Andrew St. John waited for her, data pad in hand. "Miss Tracy, there are investigators from the New York Police waiting for you in your anteroom. I have rescheduled your three o'clock appointment for Thursday..."

"You'll have to reschedule again it for after the Thanksgiving holiday, Drew," Rhea said firmly as she walked into the anteroom. "I'm out of town as soon as I can hitch a ride." She smiled at the two plainclothes officers, stopping to shake hands with them as they rose to meet her. "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting," she said, her voice both warm and businesslike. "I'm Allison Tracy." As Andrew opened the French-style door for her, she motioned toward her office with an open palm. Marilee had already stepped in and headed for her favorite spot, a chair just behind where the officers would sit. "Please come in." A glance over one shoulder, and a quick, "Yvette, hold my calls, please," then she disappeared inside. Andrew closed the door behind them, and sighed.

"It seems I must ring up the island and inform them of the change in itinerary," he said to the receptionist, shaking his balding head in resignation.

"I'll hold down the fort," she told him, a grin plastered across her dark face. He nodded gravely, and entered his own office, while the phone rang at Yvette's desk. She pressed a couple of buttons, and held her earphone a little closer. "Miss Tracy's office." A beat, then, "I'm sorry, but Miss Tracy is unavailable for comment. Let me transfer you to Public Relations."

As the applause from the live audience died down, the show's investigative reporter, one Cindy Taylor, glanced up at the camera, and smiled. "Today we welcome, Rhea Allison Tracy, CEO of Tracy Ventures, for a rare interview." She turned her attention to her victim. "I understand you prefer to go by 'Allison' as opposed to 'Rhea'. May I call you that?"

Rhea nodded, a regal incline of her head. "Certainly."

"I've heard, Allison, that your five younger brothers are all named after a Mercury astronauts. What about you?"

Rhea crossed her legs, one knee over the other and her well-manicured hands rested on her thigh. "Yes, what you've said is true, Cindy. My brothers are named for five of the seven Mercury astronauts, while I'm named for Rhea Hurrle Allison Woltman, one of the Mercury 13, a group of women who went through the same kind of training that the men did. Sadly, none of them ever went into space." She shifted a little. "My mother insisted on Allison as my middle name."

"Interesting." The reporter glanced up at her prompter. "Most of your brothers, like your father, have had careers that are dangerous in one way or another. Your father was in the US Air Force and a pioneer in the World Space Authority. Your brother, Scott, was a decorated Air Force pilot. John was a NASA astronaut who spent time on the Space Station. Gordon used to be an officer with the World Aquanaut Security Patrol, and Alan still races cars." She gave Rhea a carefully cultivated look of curiosity. "What about your brother, Virgil? What has he been up to? He was a top pick for college football, and surprised everyone by choosing a college that didn't even have a football team."

"Virgil?" she repeated, a smile crossing her face. "He's not a speed demon, or a flyboy, or a rocket jockey like the rest. He's a quieter sort, more contemplative, though don't ever play football against him. He still runs like a deer and has a tackle like a bull!" There was a pause as the audience chuckled then she resumed. "He's musically inclined, plays piano and composes his own scores, and he paints. Watercolor, acrylic, oil... quite a bit of the art in my house and our offices was done by him. He'll be one of the artists participating in a New York celebrity charity show after the New Year; it's a benefit for one of his favorite charities, Houses for Humans. We hope the show will raise to several hundred thousand dollars for it."

"Don't know that we'll do that well, Ray," he muttered. "I'm just not that good."

"What are you watching, V-Virgil?" Brains came out onto the pool patio.

Again, Virgil held up the data pad.

"Ah, I s-see." Brains nodded sagely. "I'm glad I'm, uh, not a brother." He put his towel on the back of a lounger, his glasses on the table next to it, then eased himself into the pool.

"What are you doing out here, Brains?" Gordon asked, stopping his laps and sweeping his wet hair back. "Grandma kick you outside or something?"

"N-No, Gordon. But Kyrano needed Tin-Tin's help and I can't get more d-done without her."

"What are you working on?" Virgil sat up and swung his legs over the side of the hammock. "Dad's been pretty tight-lipped about it."

Brains stopped on the bottom step, and peered at Virgil. He looked thoughtful and was quiet for a long while. "I c-can't really tell you, right now, V-Virgil. Your father will, uh, let you know about it in due time." With that, he put his prescription goggles on, and slipped beneath the water.

Virgil and Gordon exchanged glances. Virgil shook his head; Gordon shrugged, and went back to swimming.

"Have you seen the interview yet, Scott?" Alan asked as they left Earth's atmosphere, heading to the space station.

"Yeah," Scott said, sighing. "Why Ray said what she did, I'll never know. I mean, I'm proud of my aircraft designs, but why did she focus on them?"

"And why did she say I wasn't going to be racing anytime soon?" Alan shook his head. "I mean, Paris to Dakar is coming up, and I should be home for that, at least."

"Maybe she knows something you don't," Scott said, reaching over to tweak a control. He waved Alan out of video range. "Thunderbird Five from Thunderbird Three, do you copy?"

There was a relatively long wait, then John's face appeared on the view screen, puzzlement in his voice and expression. "Thunderbird Three to Thunderbird Five, I copy. What's up, Scott?"

"We are, John. We're about forty minutes from you, and I'm carrying a passenger."

Another pause, then a deeper sense of puzzlement, and the query, "Passenger?"

"Yes, you dope," Alan said, coming into range of the transmitter, and sounding disgusted. "I've been sent up early to replace you and I'll be here through Thanksgiving."

John's expression went from astounded to delighted to highly amused in seconds. "What the hell did you do to get sent up early, Alan?"

Alan scowled, and Scott grinned, saying, "It was a doozy, John. I'll tell you all about it when we get there, John. Just wanted to give you time to pack before we arrived."

"F-A-B!" John said, his voice full of mirth. "I'll be waiting. Thunderbird Five out!"

"Why'd you have to tell him that?" Alan said, pouting.

"You know he'll to want to know."

"Yeah, but you could have waited until we got there."

"I am waiting. I didn't tell him what you did to mess up, just how badly you had."

In forty minutes, they were docking with Thunderbird Five. As soon as the docking bay was full of air, but before the two astronauts had disembarked, the airlock was opened and John came through, bags in hand. No sooner had they opened Three's hatch than he was inside and stowing his bags in the storage bins. "Just so you don't think I'll be persuaded to stay." he said as explanation.

Alan rolled his eyes, and Scott grinned. "So, tell me what you did, Alan," John said when he'd finished. Alan just shook his head, but Scott rested an arm on John's shoulder.

"He tried to tell us that he'd sprained his ankle after that last rescue, but he wouldn't let Brains or Dr. Hatoshi see him, and Virgil caught him playing tennis..."

"And Dad decided to put him out of temptation's way!" John laughed. "Well, then, guys. Let's go ahead and get this Bird unloaded. I'm sure you've got plenty of great food to see you through the holiday, Alan, and I, for one, would like to get home and get some sun."

"Dad thought you might want to surprise Rhea and ride shotgun with Tin-Tin to pick her up in New York."

John's eyes widened in delight. "Hey! That's a great idea! Does she know I'm coming home early?"

"Not that I know of," Scott said as he headed for the cargo area. "Alan, go get the antigrav float, would you?"

"Okay," Alan said, sighing. "Be back in a few."

"I'll give Dad a quick call and tell him not to tell her," John said as he hauled out a cryo-cooler, sliding it along the rubberized floor.

"Well, that took longer than I thought," Rhea said, shaking her head wearily. "I hope they don't want me to stay in New York. It might set my little vacation back."

"There wasn't anything more that they could do, or that you could do, or that we could do," Marilee said, standing and sliding her hand over her smooth silver hair, touching her neat bun out of habit. "As long as Bodie didn't bite anyone..."

"And she didn't..."

"Then there's no reason why you should postpone the trip. In fact, if I know St. John, he's already made the arrangements."

"Oh yeah, he has." The masculine, New Jersey-accented voice seemed to come from everywhere in the room and both women looked up. "Tracy One is due to arrive at 1758 hours Eastern Standard Time tomorrow. Tin-Tin Kyrano is listed as pilot."

"Thanks, Wally," Rhea said, sounding weary.

"Anytime, Miz T."Rhea winced at the familiarity, but then, her father had wanted the artificial intelligence to be friendly and colloquial. Wally - named for Mercury astronaut Walter "Wally" Schirra - had functioned as her father's sounding board during his tenure in the CEO's office. Rhea didn't use Wally's services as her father had, but kept him online. Part of his programming was defensive, and he was a deft hand at finding the information she requested. Jeff had treated Wally almost as friend; Rhea treated him like a program. His matrix had been recently copied, tweaked to give him a new personality, and installed in Thunderbird Five. The two AIs - Wally and Deke - were linked so that if one of them went down, the other could upload his counterpart's data, and step in.

There was a pause, then Rhea asked, "Who do you think was behind it, Marilee? It didn't feel like a very well-planned attack, whoever did it."

Marilee sat back, sighing, a expression both reluctant and perplexed on her face. She raised a hand, palm up. "I don't know, Allison. We may have to wait to see what the police dig up."

"The whole thing makes me think more of the Tellus Prime people; they've never impressed me as being too terribly well coordinated on a micro level." Picking up a stylus, Rhea lightly traced circles on her desk top, making no mark. "The big things, like Hevelius 9, or sabotaging the Fireflash, yeah." She grimaced. "They do those well enough."She shook her head. "I mean, they barely scratched the paint on the Eagle. Yeah, they took out a tow tractor, and shooting the driver was terrible, but it felt so... unplanned. Like they didn't know what they were going to do until they had to do it." She glanced over at Marilee, then up at the ceiling. "Wally? How's that driver doing?"

There was a short pause, then the AI replied, "According to personnel records, Willie Howell was on paid sick leave for two weeks, then returned part-time for another week. He's currently back to full-time hours."

"Thanks, Wally."

"You're welcome, Miz T."

"Don't sell them short." The security chief shook her head. "From all reports, they're getting better organized, smarter, gathering numbers. And far more covert. More than one of the scientists who have disappeared are suspected to have been abducted by them. They've been implicated in the downing of not one but two Fireflash jets. That's over 600 people dead, Allison. I'm sure that if they'd had the chance, they'd have continued attacking until the Eagle was a smoking hulk on the tarmac." She paused, waiting for her point to settle in. "The only reason they take responsibility at all is to keep their name in the papers. The big things give them press, but it's the little ones that generate more fear. And they like fear."

"But... in broad daylight? In Central Park?" The stylus stopped moving, and dropped unceremoniously to the wooden surface. "If it were the World Gov, they'd have just made me disappear. Quietly, inconspicuously. Nobody would know how they did it or where I was. This felt... amateur."

"Unless they were testing things out; seeing how you'd react." Marylee's lips thinned as she pressed them together. "Releasing Bodie to go after a bag with just water bottles and doggy doo in it was a stupid move."

"There was more in it than that," Rhea snapped.

"Like what? The new romance novel you're reading?" Marilee challenged.

Rhea shifted in her seat, but looked chastised. "It was the principle of the thing," she muttered. She pushed a piece of white paper in Marilee's general direction. "I was fined for it, too."

There was a silence again, then Marilee smiled ruefully. "For all we know, Tellus Prime may have had nothing at all to do with it. It may really have just been some opportunist looking to get a fat ransom. I'm not saying that's anything to sneeze at, but at least it wouldn't have anything to do with the project. You put it aside for now. Go home and get ready for your trip. I'll call if there are any more details to be had."

"All right, Mother Hen." Rhea smiled wearily. "I'll get to see John this year, anyway. I need to get down to one of the college stores..."

"You can do that online or send that personal shopper of yours out to get it," Marilee reminded her. "You may not be able to bring it to him during Thanksgiving, but there's Christmas coming, and if you decide to bring him out here after the holiday, he can get it then."

"Good idea." Rhea nodded. "Wally, nudge Kate Higgs for me. I need two basic Harvard crest sweatshirts, both heather gray, size large. Deadline, tomorrow afternoon at three. Delivered to my home. I won't be in the office."

"You got it, Miz T."

"Two?" Marilee raised an eyebrow.

"One to return to John, one for me."

"Ah."

"As for bringing him out to the office, I hope he'll agree, and that Dad can spare him," Rhea said, looking pensive. "This project... he's an integral part of it, and I'm afraid Dad'll want to keep him close to home and working with Brains." She slipped out of her heels and put her feet up. Her office chair was a recliner with heat and massage functions when she needed them. It was covered with a dark brown faux leather. Her desk was a wide expanse of teak, kidney-shaped, held up by two similarly shaped pedestals. She kept her desk as clear as possible, with little more than a data pad, a top-of-the line computer with multiple touch screens, and a stylus or two on the smooth top. She preferred a clean workspace, but when she got going and things got intense, it got cluttered. "A clean desk is the sign of a disturbed mind," one of her old college roommates used to say. She'd sure think I was disturbed if she could see me now.

Glancing up, she saw Andrew standing outside the office door, a data pad in hand, speaking with Yvette. The beveled glass panes were adjustable; they could be clear, tinted, or one way mirrors looking from the inside out. Right now they were clear, and Andrew glanced up, making eye contact with Rhea. She waved him in, and the door, which was locked for most people, unlocked at his touch. He came in, and sat across the desk from her, sitting with spine straight.

"I rang up the island," he began, his rich English accent making him sound superior, "and apprised Mr. Tracy of your intention to fly there earlier than expected. He requests that you ring him up from home, but the arrangements have been made at La Guardia for Tracy One to rendezvous with you tomorrow evening." He handed over a data pad. "Depending on how long a layover is allowed, you should arrive on Tracy Island late Friday evening, their time."

She read the itinerary carefully, shaking her head. "I hate the International Date Line. Why couldn't Dad find an island on this side of it?" A sort of choking sound came from Marilee's direction; when Rhea glanced up, it had turned into a discreet cough. "This is with a speed of Mach 2.0?"

"That is the speed Mr. Tracy indicated would be on the flight plan."

"Hmph. Maybe I can get Tin-Tin to speed up a little on the way back." She sighed, and lowered the footrest. "I promised Emilio that I'd leave early, so I'd better go." Nodding at Andrew and holding out his data pad, she said, "Let Long know I'll be ready in fifteen. The private entrance, please."

"Very good, Miss Tracy." Andrew rose, retrieved the data pad, and left, his steps brisk and businesslike.

Both women watched him go, and Rhea asked thoughtfully, "Do you ever think we'll get him to loosen up?"

"Only if we get him drunk," was Marilee's wry answer.

"So, now we know what Virgil has been up to. I understand that Scott has been furnishing your Tracy Aerospace division with some intriguing new designs." Cindy's smile was engaging, as if she were encouraging Rhea to confide in her.

Rhea's returning smile was polite, but less enthusiastic. "Ah, yes. Scott just won a couple of awards for the TI-772, his family-oriented supersonic jet." Her smile widened, became warmer, showing a hint of pride. "His Air Force background would probably make it easier for him to design fighter jets, but since Tracy Aerospace does not deal with weapons per se, the commercial sector gets the benefit of his expertise."

Scott shook his head as he paused the interview. "Why did she have to mention the TI-772? I'm far more proud of the troop carrier helijet."

"My question is more: why is Cindy asking about us and not her?" John shook his head. "From what I could see in the interview, Rhea was trying to do two things: first, focus on Tracy Ventures' commercial contracts as opposed to our military ones. And second, to make it look like you and me and the rest of our brothers aren't lazy louts living at home, wasting Dad's money while she slaves away in New York, helping to make that money." John double-checked a reading on Thunderbird Three's console, and adjusted a control in response to what he saw. "You have to admit, the five of us still living with Dad in a tropical island paradise, unmarried, seemingly living a playboy lifestyle... we look pretty lazy compared to Rhea."

"If only they knew..." Scott said, shaking his head.

"But they don't and they can't." John glanced over at the data pad that Scott had brought with him. "Play the part about me again."

"Egotist." Scott forwarded through the recording, then pressed "play". "Here it is." He handed the pad over to his brother

"John has been really keeping busy. He's updating his first book, getting some new pictures for it, especially of the Tracy Quasar."

Cindy leaned forward a little. "I've read his book and found it fascinating. His pictures are so clear. Where does he get them? What observatory is he working from?"

Rhea leaned in a little, too, as if imparting a secret. "Well, you know that my father has built a communication satellite in geostationary orbit, with the orbital point being over the South Pacific, right?"

"Yes, I had heard that."

She nodded firmly as she sat back. "Well, part of that satellite is dedicated to an unmanned observatory. John has one of the most sophisticated telescopic arrays in the world to work with. He can download his images from there to a smaller observatory on my father's island."

John paused the video. "You have to admit, Scott, that's a really clever way of excusing Thunderbird Five's existence." He sat back in the command chair. "Dad had to have it on file with the proper authorities so that outgoing space craft would know where it was. And the basic platform was built by Tracy Aerospace. Mentioning that part of it is a telescopic array keeps people from asking questions."

"Hmph." Scott reached out to activate the communications panel. "Base from Thunderbird Three, do you read?"

"Reading you five by five, Thunderbird Three." Jeff's voice boomed through the command level. "You're clear for landing. Welcome home, boys."

"F-A-B, and thanks, base."

Both Scott and John sat up and paid attention to the controls. Bringing Thunderbird Three into its berth was a tricky maneuver, and though it could be done with a single pilot, it was far easier to do it with two - one to control the descent, and the other to make sure the engine nacelles were positioned properly onto the blast ducts. Both Scott and John were old hands at it, but it had to be done on the first try. A second attempt was both difficult and dangerous, especially as far as security was concerned.

"Rotate left 2 degrees," John said tersely. "Decreasing speed."

"F-A-B." Scott slid a toggle upward along a track, but just a little. Thunderbird Three turned, very slightly.

Their speed decreased; John flicked a switch and the door beneath the Round House irised open. The spaceship slipped through the opening, and the chemical rockets fired. The silo was filled with smoke and flame; the nacelles inched down almost painfully into their cup-shaped blast ducts.

"And we're down," Scott declared with satisfaction.

"Let's button up this guy while waiting for the silo to clear. I'd rather not come back to do post-flight checks. In fact, barring a rescue, I'd rather not see this thing for the next month." John opened up the program with the necessary checklist.

"F-A-B," Scott replied, grinning.

"Thank you, Therese. That will be all." As Therese took the half-empty plate and retreated into the kitchen, Rhea sat back with her glass of water. For once she'd rather have had wine, but she was careful not to mix alcohol with prescription drugs, and wine was something she usually saved for lunch, well between doses. The townhouse was very quiet, and tonight, it made her uncomfortable. She thought of the table at her father's house, where conversation, both interesting and silly, ruled the meal. Tonight she felt very alone, and found herself restless. She had never been good at waiting; she did it, and sometimes to great effect when dealing with business. She'd learned the timing of making deals, of expanding, of cutting losses. But on a personal level, waiting sometimes galled her. She was used to quick service - but family was a different story altogether.

She also thought about the attempt of the early afternoon. Who's watching me? Was it really just some opportunist? Could it be the World Government? Could they have discovered this big project, and who's behind it? Is it Tellus Prime, having discovered the same thing? Both groups would stop it if they could, though for totally different reasons. Yet, it's right. She trusted her father. She trusted Brains, and John, and the calculations they'd come up with. And if the World Government doesn't think this threat is real, I do. My family does. International Rescue does. And we'll be damned if we let it come to pass.

Glancing at her watch, she suddenly remembered that her father had asked her to call. "Better get to it," she murmured.

She took her water with her as she went to her home office. Her house, sitting on a secluded street where you'd think none would exist in New York City's boroughs, offered her as many amenities as she could think of. There was a workout room with treadmill, stationary bike and other equipment. There was a spacious den with the latest in entertainment technology. She had formal living and dining rooms for entertaining, as well as guest rooms, enough to house half her family when they came to visit. A small combination library and music room combined offered a quiet haven. Her sizable, walled yard and terrace allowed her a private outdoor area, as well as running space for the dogs. The only thing she was missing, Gordon always said, was an indoor pool.

She peeked into the den before moving on to the office. Her dogs, Bodie and Bruno, were lying together in front of the fireplace, looking like a huge black bear rug. Bruno, her male Bershermer, was fawn and black, larger than Boadicea - as she was formally called - and sported a shaggier coat. His domain was protecting her property, while Bodie protected her person. He would be let out in a while to patrol, while Bodie would sleep at the foot of Rhea's bed, a quiet, quickly alerted time bomb for anyone who happened to be skilled enough to avoid Bruno.

The office door unlocked at her touch; a tiny pad in the handle responded to her thumb print. The handle itself was keyed to the lines in her hand, her particular pulse rate and rhythm, the oils on her skin, or any combination thereof. Even Therese wasn't allowed in there to dust; Rhea took care of the housekeeping herself.

She put the water glass down on a soapstone coaster, and flung herself into her office chair, a replica of the one at work. It rolled backwards a yard or so, and she grumbled curses under her breath as she scooted it back into place. Checking the time, she worked out the timezone difference and made a face. "Lunch time there. Do I call?" She thought of Marilee and the fact that her father probably knew about the attempt already. "I'd better." With that, she placed the call.

The touch of a button speed dialed a number she had already memorized, and she chose both voice and picture on her vidphone. She slipped her microphone/earphone combination in, pushing back her thick hair as she did so. Nibbling on the edge of one manicured thumbnail, she waited for a dizzying array of communication satellites to complete the connection. A small sign popped up on the screen: "Connection completed, waiting for response." After a few moments, the screen flickered, and a familiar face appeared.

"Tracy residence. Oh, hello, Miss Rhea."

She smiled. "Hello, Kyrano. I know it's lunch time, but I need to speak with Dad. Please."

Kyrano nodded, his pleasantly inscrutable expression creasing into a small smile. "I will see if Mr. Tracy is available."

Abruptly, the screen changed to, "On Hold," and she went back to nibbling at her nail. It seemed to take forever, but it was roughly five minutes before the screen changed again, and Jeff was smiling back at her.

"Hello, Rhea. How are you yesterday?"

Rhea smiled warmly. "I'm... okay. How are things there in tomorrow land?"

"Quiet for a change," Jeff replied. His smile faded. "I got a report about an attempted kidnapping..."

She sighed. "I told Marilee that I'd tell you myself; in fact, that's why I'm calling."

"It's her job to keep me apprised of such things, Rhea, you know that." Jeff's tone was gently chiding. "But I do want to hear it from your point-of-view."

She sighed again, and said, "Well, it went down like this..."

For the next twenty minutes, Rhea described the incident. Jeff asked questions; she answered them as best she could, and they discussed possible culprits and motives. Finally, Jeff sighed.

"This isn't getting us anywhere. We have to wait for more information. Marilee said she'd keep me abreast on what she finds out." He raised a grizzled eyebrow. "She said you were hurt? And that you collapsed? Is that why you want to come home early?"

"Dad!" Rhea dragged the syllable out, like a teenager would. "It was just a scratch, really. Milio glued it shut and said I shouldn't have much of a scar. It was a reaction to the whole thing that made me fall apart." She paused, shaking her head. "Milio basically told me I was too stressed, and I thought coming to the island a few days early would help de-stress me. It was my decision; I didn't need doctor's orders. I promised to rest while I'm there."

"Is that a ploy to get out of helping with Thanksgiving preparations?" Jeff suddenly grinned.

She rolled her eyes. "You know very well that, in Grandma's eyes, I can do nothing right in the kitchen. Not even peel potatoes. I don't know why she insists I help out; all she does is correct me." Her tone dropped to one both quiet and sad. "It's been that way ever since Ma died."

"Maybe she wants you to learn to do things the right way," her father offered.

"Her way, you mean." The comment sounded bitter, and angry, and Rhea immediately felt remorseful. "I'm sorry, Dad. I'll be glad to help out in the kitchen. God knows most of my brothers are all thumbs in there."

"I'll see what I can do on this end to keep you out of the kitchen... except for the sweet potato casserole." Jeff sounded sympathetic, then slightly mischievous. "Your grandmother refuses to make it the way you do... the way your mother did, and I like it better that way. No sticky marshmallows for me; I prefer that delicious walnut streusel topping."

His comments perked Rhea up, and she smiled, blushing a bit at her father's praise. Then she tossed her head, her long auburn locks swaying back and forth, and gave him a saucy look. "So, why is Tin-Tin piloting tomorrow?"

"She needs to get out of the lab and off the island for a bit. So does Brains, but I can't spare him. Not now. She'll fly on the way out, and you can chat with your brother on the way back. Make sure you've got a good restaurant picked out."

"Hell, as far as I'm concerned, they can put up with airport food! I'm that anxious to get out of here!"

Jeff sat back, looking pleased and surprised. "Well, that's a change. Usually we have to drag you out of New York."

She shook her head, saying soberly, "Not this time, Dad. I need the time away."

"So I see." Jeff shifted his position. "Well, you'll get it. Anything else we need to discuss?"

Rhea thought for a moment. "Just remind Tin-Tin that I'm bringing the dogs. I know she gets nervous around them."

He nodded. "I'll remind her, and let Kyrano know, too, so we have food for those bottomless gullets."

There was a long pause where each of them tried to think of something to ask, or to say. They were in contact almost daily, so family matters were discussed as they happened, and she often called him from work on business matters as well. Jeff wanted to tell her about Alan's pseudo-injury, and John's early homecoming, but John had asked him not to say anything, as it would spoil the surprise.

"Well, you'd better get some rest," he finally said. "You've had a trying day."

"I will, Dad. I love you, you know."

"I know. And I love you, too."

"Good afternoon then." Rhea was loath to end the call, though she didn't have much more to say.

"And goodnight to you. See you the day after tomorrow... here."

"Right." Reluctantly, she reached out to break the connection, and sighed deeply.

Jeff saw the "call disconnected" sign on the screen and sighed, too. He glanced up to see his mother standing nearby with the remains of his lunch on a tray.

"So, why has Rhea had a trying day?" she asked.

Jeff groaned inwardly. "After I finish my lunch, Mother. Then I'll tell you."

With the end of the call, the quiet of the house and her own isolation descended again. Sometimes, she didn't like living alone, but felt she couldn't really take on a roommate. She'd had enough of them in college, before she did her MBA, and John came to live with her. She'd stayed in the dorms her first two years at Harvard, then moved off-campus her junior year so she could concentrate on her studies. College students, she had found, were chronically short of money, and while her family wasn't as rich then as it was now, she'd never really had to go without as long as she budgeted her stipend well. It had always seemed that the poorest of the students were the ones she'd chosen to have room with her... at least poor in the sense that, though they could find money for tuition and for frivolous things, when it came to their part of the rent or utilities, they'd usually come up short. Besides, now that she was CEO, there was the fishbowl aspect of her life. A roommate of either gender would stir up uncomfortable and unpleasant speculation.

Suddenly, she felt the sudden urge for music. She got up, finished her now-lukewarm water, and headed for the library.

The library was a relatively small room, or it felt that way since a sizable part of it was taken up by a baby grand piano. Bookshelves lined the walls from floor to near ceiling, and there was a comfortably deep armchair, with a floor lamp standing next to it in just the right spot. Her favorite place to read, if truth be told. But she wasn't there for reading. This room also had an excellent sound system, and she planned on making use of it.

Opening a hutch, she took out the hard, leather-covered case that held one of her prized possessions, a fiddle. It had started as a violin, but had been altered, as many fiddles are. Steel strings and fine tuners were attached to the tail piece to accommodate the style of music that Rhea played. When her mother had signed her up for violin lessons in elementary school, Rhea had eschewed the classical pieces for the more enjoyable - to her - folk music. She particularly liked Irish folk, which was dependent on the fiddle, as well as American Western and Country music. When she was at Harvard, she could sometimes be found playing the Irish with a small group of students in one of Southie's bars, or occasionally providing live music at a square dancing studio. Right now, she had a particular piece in mind, one she'd heard in a eighty-year-old recording. Virgil had managed to recreate the score as this particular group had arranged it, and she, Scott, and Gordon had been practicing it. She'd also gotten a remastered copy of the recording to play along with during practice.

She tuned the fiddle with care, making sure it sounded right to her ear, and checking it against the piano's tune. Then she said, "Playback, Ghost Riders in the Sky, by Riders in the Sky, 1980 version. Drop out fiddle part." The sound system responded to her instructions; the music began to play. As it progressed, she listened carefully, adding what was missing, losing herself in the music. She visualized Scott and Gordon playing with her, Scott providing the guitar solos just as they were in the recording. The two of them, and maybe Virgil, would provide the vocals as it wasn't a song in her range. When the piece came to an end, she was almost surprised.

"Again. Same parameters." The song began again, and she raised her fiddle. She would lose count of how often she played it that night, but eventually her arms tired, and she'd had enough.

She sighed, a deeply satisfied sound, and looked at the clock. Ten o'clock, her usual bedtime. Though she didn't have to get up early for work the next day, she decided to keep to her schedule. She put her fiddle away carefully, turned off the sound system, then went to deal with the dogs.

"Bruno, Bodie, come." She called to them from the door to the den, and as she said each name, the dog in question got up, stretched, yawned, and trotted over to her, tail wagging happily. They followed her to the rear door, where she flicked a switch to activate the outer lights, and the high tech dog house in the back. Bruno, though on guard duty throughout the night, had a warm place to retreat to when he needed it in winter and a cool place during the summer months. There was always water available, and food was dispensed during the night to keep him sustained.

Rhea opened the door and let him out. He immediately began sniffing around, then started his first circuit of the house and grounds, following the marked pathways that kept the grass from being trodden under foot. The alarm system's motion sensors wouldn't pick him up; it was programmed with both his and Bodie's specific range of biometrics. Bodie followed him out so she could relieve herself, and returned minutes later. Rhea let her back in, and Bodie trotted off in the direction of the stairs to take up her own post.

Her owner double-checked the status of the computerized alarm system. It worked on a timer, but Rhea was in the habit of making sure it was armed before she went to bed. Then she walked over to the small suite, just off the kitchen, where Therese roomed.

"Heading upstairs, Therese," she said, smiling at the petite housekeeper. Middle-aged and a widow with young grandchildren, Therese was from Louisiana, and she came highly recommended as a cook at first. When Jeff was in the throes of moving from the U.S. to his island, and Kyrano was tied up making the household arrangements, Therese was brought in to take his place at the family penthouse, situated in Tracy Tower Three. Once everything was moved, and it was clear that no one was going to be living there on a permanent basis, Rhea hired her as housekeeper.

"I'll be leaving tomorrow evening for the island," she explained. Pausing, she added, "Why don't you take the rest of the week off? It's not like anyone will be here."

"Thank you for the offer, Miss Allison." Therese returned the smile, creasing her dark face; her white teeth gleamed. She glanced toward the door to the back yard. "But what about Bruno? I know you would take Bodie with you..."

Rhea smiled. "I was planning on bringing him with me over Thanksgiving anyhow, so they're both coming with me tomorrow."

"Then I'll take the week, and thank you again, Miss Allison." Therese's strong drawl sounded as she added, "I'll see you in the mornin'."

"In the morning, then."

Therese shut her door, and Rhea went upstairs. She prepared herself for bed, but just after brushing her teeth, she pulled a bottle out of her medicine cabinet. Opening it, she shook two white pills into her hand and just looked at them. There was always the temptation to stop her meds, to try to live life without the "crutch", as she had sometimes considered it. But her eyes always dropped down to the faint scars on her arms, and she remembered what brought her to the point of needing the drugs. With a quick motion, she dumped them into her mouth, and washed them down with water. Her nightly routine complete, she slipped between the sheets, and was soon fast asleep.

Elsewhere, not far away...

The televid reporter was at the park, bundled up for the chilly, breezy evening, the darkness obscuring much of the scenery beyond his floodlight's reach. He consulted his "Two people are in custody following an alleged kidnapping attempt on Tracy Ventures' CEO, Allison Tracy this afternoon. The attempt was made here, as Ms. Tracy was running with her dog early this after noon. The NYPD had this to say about the attempt..."

As the reporter described the scene, and answered questions from the eleven o'clock anchor team, a middle-aged woman shook her head and snorted a word. "Bunglers." The televid was the only light in the well-furnished living room; she stood near it, her arms folded, lips pursed in disgust. She turned to her companion, an older man who was sprawled on a rich leather sofa, a glass of bourbon in hand, designer dress shirt and silk tie loosened. "Why do we always hire bunglers?"

"The crew that took out the Fireflash didn't bungle their job, at least, not at first," the man said. He took a healthy gulp of his liquor, smacking his lips with a satisfied sound. "If International Rescue hadn't intervened..."

"But they did!" The woman now turned from the televid and stalked closer to her companion, her silken dressing gown brushing across the expensive Berber carpet. "International Rescue intervened. They saved the two pilots of the second plane, and discovered the saboteurs we hired." She threw herself onto the sofa next to him and huffed, "Bunglers! All idiots!"

The man knocked back the rest of his drink and grimaced. "So, what should we do with this pair of bunglers? The usual?"

The woman frowned, thoughtful. "Yes, I suppose. Get the lawyer to see them first; they might have some information we can use. Then see to their continued cooperation... and silence." She shook her head. "You know very well that because of this, any move against the astronomer son will be next to impossible. Both of them will be well-guarded."

"I agree. This botched kidnapping will keep security on high alert." He ran a hand through his hair, and set his glass down on the end table beside him. "I suppose you want me to call the lawyer now?"

"Yes. The sooner this is dealt with, the better." She rose from the sofa, adjusting her dressing gown as she did so. "I'm going to bed."

"Goodnight," the man offered as she faded into the surrounding darkness. There was no reply.

He sighed and made to rise, then lowered himself back into the depths of the couch. "I'll call... after I hear the sports scores."