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There were a lot of advantages to being a legal adult. Like invites to cool parties. Well, not necessarily ‘cool’ parties, not in the college kegger sense (were college keggers actually cool? Alan’s brothers were divided on the point); but definitely swanky parties. The sort of parties that your average astronaut would consider a sign of official professional success. Like, for instance, the centennial celebration of the first Gemini test flight.
One of the disadvantages was having to wear a suit at said swanky parties.
Alan tugged on his tie uncomfortably. “Couldn’t I have just worn my flightsuit? It is a party for astronauts, right? And it does have ‘suit’ in the name.”
“You get used to it,” said Scott from the driver’s seat. They’d done the civilian thing for once and actually landed at the airport and rented a vehicle, on the grounds that parking a Thunderbird on the front lawn of the Kennedy Space Center might be interpreted as ‘showing off’. After a conventional self-steering car had been collectively ruled as ‘lame’, Scott and their father had flipped a coin for driving rights. Jeff had won–and then been promptly overruled by John pointing out that his licence had expired five years earlier.
“Do you?” muttered John.
“For a certain definition of ‘used to’ … eventually.” Jeff turned from the passenger seat and grinned at Alan. “If it helps, all the active duty personnel here have to be in GDF dress uniform. Which is somehow worse.”
“Much worse,” Scott corroborated, flicking on the indicator as they came up on the guest parking. “They itch like crazy.”
“Ridley says they’re actually pretty comfortable,” said John. “Are you sure your wingmen didn’t just prank yours?”
“... aaaand now I’m suddenly rethinking half my flight school friendships.”
“Is Captain O’Bannon gonna be here tonight?” Alan asked.
“Yep. Which is pretty much the only reason I agreed to come.” John grimaced, voice lowering. “AlsoI’mkindofsupposedtobegivingaspeech.”
“Wait.” Scott twisted over his shoulder, in a move that caused his father to visibly restrain himself from grabbing the steering wheel. “What?”
“You’re giving a speech?” spluttered Alan. “At a party?”
“The museum director pretty much begged me to,” John mumbled. “After my thesis on the development of EVA techniques I kind of inadvertently became the Project Gemini tech expert.”
“He didn’t mention it to you boys?” Jeff asked curiously. “It’s been decided for weeks. And I, for one, can’t wait to hear it.”
“Dad, you do realise this is Jonathan we’re talking about. Giving a speech.”
“Real supportive, Alan,” John muttered.
“Delivery’s questionable, but it’s not an insane point.” Scott made eye contact with John in the rearview mirror. “Are you gonna be okay?”
“I’ll be fine. I think. I’ve survived two oral thesis defences. And I’d much rather be on the stage than making small talk with strangers.”
“You’re gonna do great,” said Jeff. “One tip: do not imagine the audience in their underwear. It does not help.”
“Duly noted.”
Scott hadn’t been entirely wrong–an hour into the event, Alan was getting used to the suit.
It was a small consolation for the fact that the party sucked.
Well, okay, Dad and Scott seemed to be enjoying it just fine. Jeff had a lifetime’s worth of friends at this shindig, after all, many of whom he hadn’t seen in nearly a decade; and Scott, thanks to a combination of Tracy Aeronautics and International Rescue, wasn’t exactly devoid of acquaintances there himself. Alan, on the other hand, was the youngest there by a full ten years–and the next guy up was his brother. And he might be a legal adult, but that didn't make him old enough for any of the champagne the waiters were circulating, not in this jurisdiction; so he had to content himself with stuffed mushrooms and … whatever this pinky-green stuff on toast was.
It was cool to see Ridley again, though. (And with visible hair this time.) Since her tour on Global One had finished a year earlier she’d been kinda out of their literal and figurative orbit, and she and John had a lot to catch up on. But that was just it–she and John had a lot to catch up on. And Dad coming over to say hi did nothing to expand the conversation, because now Ridley was just fangirling–or, rather, desperately trying to disguise the fact that she was fangirling. Which, okay, was pretty funny–but still didn’t include Alan.
What was even the point of him being here, other than canapé consumption?
Finally, the speeches started. First up was an old program director from the NASA days pre-Great Conflict (that Dad apparently had beef with, judging by his sucking-on-a-lemon expression and Scott's smirk). After he’d droned on for a while, there was a woman from the Smithsonian–and she seemed cool, but Alan was only marginally interested in artefact conservation, soooo …
It was about five minutes into her spiel about spacesuit preservation when Alan realised that John was nowhere in sight.
There was no ‘backstage’, all the speakers were going to the podium straight up out of the audience–so it wasn’t like he was waiting his turn in the wings. And, thinking back, it had been long enough since Alan had seen him that a quick restroom run seemed implausible.
Alan slunk over to the side of the event hall, avoiding Jeff and Scott’s watchful eyes, and tapped the comm in his ear. “Hey, EOS?” he whispered. “Where’d John go?”
“I’m sorry, Alan, I can’t say,” the AI replied. “He made me promise not to tell you.”
Ohhhhh crap.
“Why? Is he okay?”
“I’m … not at liberty to disclose that.”
“He’s freaking out, isn’t he?”
“I can neither confirm nor deny.”
“Riiiiiiight.” Alan scanned the room, and its exits. The hall itself was open plan–but there were multiple exit corridors, all of which probably had oodles of restrooms and supply closets. Finding a determined-to-vanish John before it was time for his speech was pretty unlikely: it wasn’t for no reason that he’d always been given a substantial handicap in hide-and-seek. “I’m guessing he made you promise not to tell Dad or Scott either, huh?”
“Correct.”
Waaaaait. “Did he mention not telling Captain O’Bannon?”
A pause as EOS grasped his meaning–and then he could hear the grim amusement in her voice. “No. No, he did not.”
Loophole!
“Hang on a sec. I’ll put her on.” Alan slipped back into the crowd and sidled up to Ridley in what he hoped was an inconspicuous manner, nudging her arm. She looked down at him–man, she was tall in heels–and he tugged out his earpiece and shoved it into her hand. Fortunately, she wasn’t enough of a germaphobe to object to a bit of earwax, and, after a brief eyebrow raise at him, she popped it in her own ear.
He waited as she listened to EOS explain the situation, a rapid succession of expressions flitting across her face–then she caught Alan’s sleeve and together they retreated through the crowd and into the east hallway.
“Should be in the supply closet down here,” Ridley said quietly–they still weren’t quite sheltered from the hall. “EOS says his pulse and respiration are through the roof.”
“Gotta love a good old fashioned panic attack,” Alan muttered, his own heartrate ticking up. He pointed to an unmarked door. “This one?”
Ridley waited a second for the AI’s confirmation. “Yes. What do you need me to do?”
“Stay on with EOS. Keep guard and chase away Scott and Dad if necessary.” Alan desperately wanted to grab an ‘adultier’ adult right now–but he knew John and his pride well enough to know that it would be kinder to keep the knowledge of this to as few people as possible. “And if they call his name before we’re ready–stall.” Quite how she’d manage that, if it came to it, Alan had no idea–but figuring that out was her problem.
Fortunately, she didn’t seem too daunted by the task. “Got it.”
Alan nodded his thanks; then tugged on the closet door, opened it a crack, and slipped through.
The room was dimly lit, with only an emergency light in the corner casting a yellow glow; but Alan could see John sitting in the corner, wedged between the wall and a mop bucket, wrapped into something alarmingly close to the foetal position. His breath was coming in far-too-quick gasps.
He closed the door carefully behind him and crouched down in front of his big brother. “Hey, Johnny. It’s Alan. Can you look at me?”
John gave no sign that he’d heard, and he chewed his lip briefly. This had never actually been his job before. Sure, he’d dealt with lots of freaked-out people before–but this was John. He knew, intellectually, from their brothers, that John had had issues with panic attacks in the past, especially in high school; but he’d never actually seen one, not in full swing. The John Alan was familiar with always knew the answers, always had it together. Seeing him anything less than perfectly in control was awful.
He fell back on his training. Grandma and Virgil had drilled him on the protocols, he’d gone through it in the field dozens of times–he knew what to do. He just had to … do it. “That’s all right, you don’t have to. I’m going to touch you now, if that’s okay?”
John didn’t reply, so Alan took the absence of a negative as agreement and placed a hand on his shoulder. John shuddered, and he nearly withdrew it–but then his older brother relaxed, just a little. Okay. Now they were getting somewhere. Alan rubbed soothing circles up and down John’s arm. “Easy, bro. I’m here. You’re safe–everything’s gonna be fine. Let’s get your breathing under control before you hyperventilate, okay? Can you open your eyes for me and name five things you can see?”
“T-that’s–” Gasp. “–n-never really … worked–on me.”
Well, at least it was a response, albeit a terrifyingly breathless one. “Okay … then we’ll try something else. What do you need?”
“I need to n-not be giving a f-freaking speech.”
Told you so was probably not a helpful response. “Don’t worry, we’ll figure out what to do about that in a minute. But I need you to relax for me first.” Preferably before passing out. If traditional grounding techniques weren't going to help–maybe he should try the opposite. “Imagine–imagine you're on Five, okay? You're on Five, and the sun's behind Earth, and you've switched off everything but the air so it's dark and quiet–and the gravity's off too, so you can just float. And you can see golden lights all the way across Europe and Africa and Asia–and if you look the other way you can see Cassiopeia, and Alpha Tauri, and Andromeda, and–”
He kept listing stars and constellations and galaxies, running his palm rhythmically back and forth along his shoulder and upper arm–and, eventually, John’s breathing slowed to less hyperoxygenating levels.
“Well,” John mumbled finally, “at least that proves you really did pass all your astronomy exams.”
“Me, cheat? I’m wounded, brother.” He squeezed John’s shoulder. “How’re you feeling?”
“Extremely embarrassed.”
“It’s cool. This closet is a judgement-free zone.”
“How’d you find me? EOS, I told you not to–”
“Loophole abuse,” Alan cut in, before he could scold the AI. “You didn’t mention Ridley in your information freeze.”
“Oh. That’s … fair.” John uncurled, tilting his head back against the wall and stretching out one leg. He exhaled slowly, reluctantly conceding. “Thanks, EOS.” Whatever her response was, without his earpiece, Alan was deaf to it. “And thank you for calming me down, Alan. That … kinda sucked.”
“I’ll bet.” Alan’s calves were killing him, squatting at this angle; he dropped back onto his butt, bumping his knees against John’s shin. “Don’t freak out on me again, but–if you hate the idea of giving a speech so much, why’d you agree to it in the first place?”
“Dad was in the room when the museum director called and offered the slot. And he looked so proud, and I just–I couldn't bear to disappoint him over something as stupid as stage fright.”
“... I get that,” Alan admitted. “Do you still want to do it, or do you want me to arrange an elaborate distraction to cover your escape?”
“I can do it. I’ll be fine. I just need to get it together. What time is it?”
Alan checked his wrist comm. “Twenty-twenty-five.”
“Then I’m on in five minutes. Crap.” He squeezed his eyes shut and breathed in carefully through his nose. “Why. Why me? Why didn't they ask Dad? He's the first man on Mars and one of the designers of the first Moon base and easily holds the record for longest time living in deep space … and I'm just a glorified switchboard operator.”
“You’re a switchboard operator who just published an epic paper on astronavigation in the era of FTL spaceflight, less than a quarter of which I actually understood. Who earned two fricking doctorates before age thirty. And who's saved more lives than the majority of the other people in this building combined.” Alan rubbed his knee gently–he had to keep him grounded, keep his breathing steady–couldn’t let him lose it again. “And you're one of the coolest idiots I know.”
He opened his eyes, returned his lopsided grin. “Emphasis on idiot?”
“Oh, always. You’re also crap at sports, even in zero-grav.”
He chuckled weakly. “How am I gonna do this, Alan?”
He thought for a second. “You’re gonna walk up onto that stage, and you’re gonna give that speech to me, and Scott, and Dad, and Ridley, and nobody else in the room will even be there. You’re not at Cape Canaveral, you’re at home in the lounge, and you’re trying to explain the evolution of EVA suits to us over pizza. And Brains knows what you’re talking about, and Dad and Virg have most of it down, but the rest of us are just dumbasses who use the stuff and have no idea how it works. So you’re talking to all of us–making it kinda technical so Brains doesn’t get bored and wander off to the lab, but still basic enough that Mister I-Can-Use-A-Jetpack-On-The-Moon-Without-Consequences can follow it.” He shuffled closer and put his free hand on his other shoulder. “Don’t think about anyone else. Just us. Can you do that?”
John took a long breath. “I … think so.”
“You’ve got this, big bro. Show everyone out there that we Tracys have got some substance behind our style, all right?”
John’s lip quirked. “When’d you get so good at pep talks?”
Alan scrambled to his feet and offered John his hand. “I’ve had a lot of good teachers. Get out there and kick ass, Doc Tracy.”
John accepted the assistance, and Alan hauled him to his feet.
Ridley was still waiting in the hall; her face cleared with relief as they emerged. “Hey. Coast’s clear, minute or so to go. You hanging in there, John?”
“Yep.” John gave Alan’s hand a quick, grateful squeeze. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
Ridley handed Alan back his earpiece, then gave John her half-empty glass of champagne. He downed it. “That’s the spirit. If you need an out, just blink an SOS and I'll set off a smokebomb or something.”
“You carry smokebombs?” Alan asked.
“Emphasis on the ‘or something’.” The crowd broke out into applause for the previous speaker. “Sounds like you're up, genius. Break a leg.”
“I have never understood that saying,” John muttered, straightening his tie and, with only the barest hesitation, marching back into the hall.
“Please help me in giving a warm welcome to Doctor Jonathan Tracy!”
John steeled himself, forced himself to mount the steps to the podium with a nod at the MC. He was going to melt. Or freeze. Or faint. Because the applause was loud, and the tux felt wrong against his skin, and there were several hundred pairs of eyes locked on him–and he would trade this for a thirty-six hour stint running planetwide air traffic control solo without having to stop to consider for a second.
He wrapped his hands around the sides of the lectern. “Evening, everyone.” His voice cracked, just slightly, and he cleared his throat. “I've met a few of you doing research over the years–so to those I know, hi, and thank you again for your contributions. As for the rest of you–given my day job, you should probably be grateful we haven't met yet.”
There was a scattering of laughter. It didn't help. He cleared his throat again, willing his climbing heartrate back down.
This was so stupid. He'd dealt with objectively far worse situations in Five without breaking a sweat. Even in the worst moments of his life up there–the Zero-X, and its aftermath, and the too-many times his brothers had been injured–he’d mostly been able to detach, to sever the emotion of what was happening to John Tracy from the operator of Thunderbird Five. Technically speaking, that probably wasn't healthy. But sometimes it was the only way he could cope–the only way to keep doing what he needed to do in the moment.
But for some reason, in front of a crowd like this–even though there was nothing actually wrong, no real threat–he couldn't disassociate if he tried. It was just him–stripped bare of all digital defences and the distraction of having something important to do–offered up for ruthless judgement. With Dad and Scott there to see it if he crashed and burned.
He was gonna be sick.
Look for Alan.
His little brother was still standing near the door where he'd left him, as was Ridley. As John's eyes found him, he gave a big two thumbs up and stuck out his tongue.
John managed to stifle the laugh that was nearly startled out of him. Okay. Okay. Just keep your eyes on the kid. And start talking, already. “It's easy to underestimate the importance of Project Gemini–sandwiched as it was between the more overtly groundbreaking, and therefore sexier, Mercury and Apollo programs–”
Another laugh. That was good, right? He glanced from Alan to Ridley; and she smiled back at him. It was still weird seeing her in her dress greys–even weirder being able to see the black curls down around her uniform collar. But a nice kind of weird. “–but Gemini wasn't so much about the showmanship, not in the same way. It was about scientific development–about pushing past the limits of what people believed was possible. Without Gemini, there's no Apollo. And without Apollo, there's no Artemis, no Shadow bases, no Martian colonies–and a whole lot of conspiracy theorists would be put out of work.”
Okay, laugh three, promising. He risked looking for his father, and found him–him and Scott, near the middle of the crowd. And Scott was grinning, and Jeff was looking up at John like he might actually explode with pride.
He swallowed. Okay, back to Alan and Ridley, because tearing up on stage was not a good look. “We take it for granted, today, that we can step outside an airlock in a suit and live–we know the techniques we need to get around in zero gravity–we know how to dock with a station–or rendezvous with another craft in orbit. But we didn't always know how to do that stuff. Someone had to try it all for the very first time. Every time we do basic orbital manoeuvres or go EVA, we're standing on the shoulders of Voskhod and Gemini. Even if I don't think about it, my daily wardrobe is directly affected by that one time Alexei Leonov’s suit expanded in vacuum so much that he couldn’t fit back in the airlock. And I'm pretty confident anyone who's ever experienced open space can relate to Ed White saying that going back inside the Gemini 4 capsule was the saddest moment of his life.”
Quite a few nods from the crowd. “Obviously, progress is the point of science–we focus on forward movement, and that's good. But it's worth it, on days like this, to pause for a second and look back on how far we've come–and to raise a glass to the people who, a hundred years ago, made it all possible.”
There were a few vocal hear-hears and quite a few more toasts. John exhaled. Scott seemed genuinely impressed, and Dad still had that look on his face–and Ridley's smile had only gotten bigger–and Alan was still giving him a big stupid cheesy wave every time he looked his way. He wasn't comfortable, but–he was gonna survive this. He could do this.
“Now, forgive me, I was asked to get technical–so, Scott, this is the bit where you sneak out and get another drink–”
Actually, never mind: judging by his older brother's expression, he was so dead.